The Passage of Time
by Celestially
Summary: Lady put up walls. It wasn't that she hated his demonic heritage—not anymore—she simply refused to let him in. It had fascinated and frustrated him ever since they met in Temen-ni-gru, but Dante knew she'd cave eventually. He would just have to wait. DxL
1. I,1: Youthful Endeavors

Hey guys! Welcome to _The Longest Night_, which is my very first foray into the _Devil May Cry_ fandom. I've had a fun time working on this one so far, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have!

Brief explanations... The story is divided into three major chapters, which are divided into parts due to length. The first chapter, which is a major retelling of _Devil May Cry 3_, is in two parts, but the other two chapters might be longer—wouldn't know, haven't written them yet! This is already a lot longer than I had anticipated...

This is very much a DxL fic, but told realistically over the course of a long time. Because Dante and Lady are silly fools who need to work out a lot of stupid shit before jumping each other's bones. _Damn it_.

Rated T for language and overall...ness. Yeah. Enjoy!

I don't own _Devil May Cry_. I don't even own any of the games—I stole them from my friend. Fail.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part One: The Longest Night

_Chapter 1: Youthful Endeavors_

"Lady," he called her, despite the fact that she couldn't be older than sixteen. A gun-wielding, ass-kicking, demon hunter, but a sixteen-year-old one nonetheless. At nineteen, Dante was only a few years older than her, but it was _different_. He was a half-demon. She was a human. What good did some human girl serve in a place like Temen-ni-gru anyway, other than as eye candy?

He had given her a variety of nicknames in the hours leading up to their encounter in the Subterranean Garden. "That hot chick on a motorcycle" was one; "the ungrateful bitch who shot me," another.

And she told Dante that she didn't have a name, so he could call her whatever he wanted. Briefly, he considered something humiliating, something to deliberately piss her off, but he relented when something akin to guilt held him back. He _sympathized_ with this apparently nameless girl, even though she had probably said all that because she didn't trust him with her real name. Either way, he brushed off her comment with a simple: "Whatever, lady," before leaping into the air to escape the chaos. He used "lady," perhaps out of instinct, or maybe he had said it to compliment this stubborn, dauntless girl and avoid another bullet in the head.

Somewhere mid-air, he shook off whatever gravity was gripping him, and it landed amongst the carnage. "I'll leave this to you," he called out to her, watching as she rapidly changed targets and blew a nearby Pride to bits. He owed her an explanation, he figured. "Because I don't want to miss the party!" And there it was. She scowled. He blew her a kiss for good measure.

After all, she really was a babe.

It dawned on him only a little later, when he was staring down Nevan—who was also a total babe; too bad he was going to have to kill her—that compared to this ancient-in-age-but-not-in-appearance demon, the girl Dante had faced before really _was_ just a girl. A stubborn, short-tempered girl. And she still didn't have a name, only two more nicknames to add to the list: "hot chick," "ungrateful bitch," and now "lady" and "girl." He figured he'd try asking her for her name again if he had the chance.

More importantly, he wanted to know what he was doing thinking about some sixteen-year-old when he had a hot topless chick in front of him. He opted to force that girl's pretty little face out of his head, and try to see if he could catch a glimpse of some nipple when Nevan tossed her hair around like that.

* * *

Dante never thought that he'd be sick to death of this job, but he was starting to know the feeling very well. It wasn't that he was tired of killing demons—quite the opposite. It was that he was sick of puzzle-solving and backtracking and getting items to open doors and rotate bridges and do all kinds of stupid shit like that. Not even kicking the stupid Neo-Generator like a soccer ball was enough to make up for the bullshit he had gone through to get it. Fighting Nevan aside. He just hoped, uselessly, that the rest of this _completely unpaid_ job wouldn't be like this.

The sun had been setting when he entered Temen-ni-gru. He hadn't known what time it was when he started, and he definitely didn't know what time it was now. Far be it from him to wear a watch. The little glimpses of outdoors that he had caught as he climbed the tower had shown him three things: first, the city was _toast_; second, it was definitely night; and third, the clouds were really fucking weird. Dante had passed that last one off as a joke when the girl had fallen off of the tower—and once his anger at being shot in the face had faded, he realized that he wanted to know how she had pulled that one off. Later, as he battled Vergil, he had assumed that it was just a bad storm. But when dealing with matters demonic, one should always assume that odd, dark clouds were a sign of bad things to come.

Dante didn't always make the wisest choices, but he was no idiot either. He knew his shit. Either way, it was going to be a long night.

Hopefully there would be more ass-kicking, less item-hunting. How the hell Vergil had gotten through the tower if Dante was the one unlocking everything? He hadn't been going the wrong way this entire time, had he?

A brief glimpse into the next room, beyond the now-rotated bridge, showed that Dante definitely _was_ going the right way. It wasn't much of a surprise: that weird man who had visited him in the shop earlier, now nothing more than a bloody heap on the floor. _Death by Yamato_. It was typical Vergil to kill his minions when he was done with them. Vergil thought of it as less bullshit to deal with later when the time came for splitting the reward, but to Dante was really more like a bloody trail.

Dante heard a click, and quickly tilted his head to the right, narrowly avoiding the bullet that would have otherwise hit him in the head. He wasn't sure what that chick's deal was with shooting him in the head, but it seemed to be her trademark. He was just lucky that the first two bullets hadn't gotten stuck in his head. He had never tested that one out, and wasn't exactly aching to either.

"Well that was quick," he said wryly, turning to face his tiny would-be assassin. Actually, he was kind of impressed that she had managed to catch up with him so quickly, given the number of Hells he had left her with. He felt no guilt there—she was just a human, but she could take care of the lesser demons well enough. The idea that he should feel guilty about that in the first place almost made him scoff.

Still, he knew that she managed to catch up with him because she simply _walked_ through any door that he had just spent who-the-fuck-knows how much time unlocking. At this rate, anyone could have followed him into the tower. Hell, he half-expected fucking _Enzo_ to show up next. He wasn't sure what Enzo would be doing there in the first place, but the idea itself was enough to drive the point home.

The girl stepped forward, one gun aimed at Dante, scowling proudly as if she had just cornered the big bad demon with her scary gun—yeah, right, because shooting him in the face had done her a load of good the other two times she had done it. He allowed himself a nice sweep of her body, again, as if he hadn't done it before. She might shoot him in the face again, but hell, if he was going to stand there then he was going to enjoy the view.

That thick pocketed skirt, which she _unfortunately_ wore shorts under, had definitely been made from an old schoolgirl skirt or two. The blouse was uniform too. She probably went to some uppity private school, only dropped out to do whatever she was doing now. Demon hunting, he guessed, but that raised as many questions as it answered. She was in the school of hard knocks now, of which Dante was a proud alumnus. He imagined offering to tutor her privately, _if she knew what he meant_, grinning inwardly despite the vivid image of her shooting him in the face for saying something like that.

Underneath those schoolgirl clothes, though, were the toned muscles of someone who had at least spent a lot of time in the gym. They seemed to add something to her shape, which was nice in a not-done-growing kind of way. She would always be a little short, but she was going to rock that tiny little body of hers later. Muscles and curves and all. As a man whose tastes usually ran in the twenty-two to twenty-five range, he said this with the utmost sincerity. He hoped she would be around that, because a part of him honestly doubted that she would last the night. Not with Vergil around.

Dante looked up at her face, finally. She was scowling back at him, well aware of the fact that he had just been eyeing her. Again, he found himself staring straight into her eyes, one blue—no, _blue-green_—one reddish—or just red?—which he had expected to see more on a demon than on a human. Still, they suited her, just like the scar that ran across her nose. Did she ever self-conscious about them? Unique features, he knew from experience, always attracted some negative attention. Too bad, because she was pretty in an impish kind of way with her short, messy hair, long neck, and pouty lips. She definitely wasn't his usual type: he usually went with the porn-star face kind of girl. But hell, there was a first time for everything.

And she was still scowling at him. He was pretty sure that _angry_ was her neutral, and she never smiled. It was as if her face was constantly severe, trying to give off a sense of strength that she might not have actually had. She tried to be a strong, confident _woman_, rather than the teenage girl that she really was.

Before he could open his mouth to say something witty, her gaze shifted towards the figure lying on the floor, lying in a pool of blood. She continued forward, eyes wide in disbelief, one gun lazily pointed at Dante. Her aim was a little off now, he noted, but he wasn't about to correct her. "That man," she suddenly said, gesturing to him with her other gun. Her hands and voice were shaking. "Did you kill him?"

Loaded question. Was this the kind of thing she was going to shoot at him for or kiss him for? The way she shook, Dante assumed that she had wanted that man dead in the first place, so there was no harm in telling a little white lie. He wanted to see if she'd get riled up again. "So what if I did?" he answered, shrugging, almost taunting her. Quietly, he hoped that she would be grateful and not angry.

She didn't hesitate much before pulling the trigger. Dante felt himself lean away from the bullet anyway, even though her aim had been off and he wouldn't have been hurt anyway. Reflex: he wasn't too keen on getting shot again if he could avoid it. He leaned out of the way again when she turned and fired several bullets in a row from the gun in her other hand. She was a pretty good shot, but he was faster when he wasn't caught by surprise. And he didn't plan on hurting her, either, so he might as well have a bit of fun and try to tire her out until she gave up.

With an amused whoop, he spun out of the way, parrying her gun with Ebony, then Ivory, then Ebony once more as she attempted to shoot again. She was pretty easy to deflect, despite her best efforts, and he was almost disappointed that she wasn't putting up a better fight. "Come on!" he taunted, and grinned slightly when she gritted her teeth in determination and tried again. This time, she brought both guns forward, pinning his arm between her own as her fingers twitched to pull the trigger. But he was much stronger than her: he simply swung that arm up, hers following his, bullets from her gun spraying the ceiling and breaking the lamps. Glass rained down, coming so close to slicing them both but miraculously leaving them unscathed.

Dante forced his arm down and she responded with a short cry of frustration, or pain, or both. She stared at him with disgust, frozen momentarily as she figured out her next move. Dante took this moment to lean in a little closer, and smoothly tell her: "Ooh, I _love_ a fast woman."

"Shut up!" she cried in retaliation, moving one arm out of the way to swing his around. He shouted again in amusement at the scowl she sent his way. She was _that_ disgusted with him. Hell if he cared, really. He probably deserved it, but that wasn't going to stop him.

She thrust her free hand forward to shoot, and he once again avoided it with his arm and a short yell. He spun, his back lining up against hers, as had been the case earlier, only this time he was her target and not the lesser demons surrounding them. It was too bad that Rebellion was on his back so he couldn't press up closer and feel her body against his. With a silent shrug he bumped her butt, causing her to cry out and stumble away as he turned to face her. It was those little moments of weakness right there, when she was so utterly surprised and caught off guard, that her angry little mask slipped and he could see her for what she really was: a scared teenage girl.

But her angry face returned soon enough, red and humiliated and more determined than ever, and she swung around to fire at him again. Oddly, she started speaking: "He was obsessed with becoming the devil," she grunted between shots, each of which Dante blocked, staring at her in curiosity, "so much he killed his own wife!" Who was she talking about, the man on the floor? He pinned her arms with his own but she soon broke free, leaning back as he swung his gun at her. He wasn't sure if he actually wanted to hurt her, but truth be told he was getting a little sick of this "tire her out" strategy.

She thrust her arm forward and her gun fired dangerously close to his ear. He brought his arms up and pinned her wrist to his shoulder, and continued listening as she spat her words at him. "For that he butchered innocent people too," she continued, emphasizing _people_ with a shot at him which he easily deflected. Still, he wondered if she had done that to spite him for not being human enough. He was probably looking into it too much—he was pretty sure she just wanted to kill him.

Quickly switching arms, Dante grabbed her free wrist and pinned it along with the other one that he had already captured, trapping her. Still caught up in her bitter words, she leaned forward, her face inching closer to his face, _but still too far_, standing on her toes as if to drive her point forward. "He's the most vile kind of creature!" she shouted before shoving him away, and he spun to block her arm for the next round of shooting she sent his way.

Now she leapt at him in desperation, as if to claw at his neck and shoot another bullet into his head. Thinking quickly, he grabbed onto her thighs and hoisted her onto his shoulders, spinning her as she flailed miserably. He shouted, again, this time wanting to prove that he really was just having fun and didn't want to hurt her—probably not the best idea, but hell if he wasn't trying to appease her a bit. He had just listened to her speech, after all.

After a moment he released her, sending her flying off in no particular direction. Unsurprisingly, she caught herself in the air, twisting her body to send another stream of bullets his way, and he avoided them by jumping up as well and spinning to dodge them. She crashed against the wall, put quickly recovered and turned her guns on him again. He, on the other hand, landed on his feet, but noticed, but to his chagrin, bullet holes in his coat. He lifted the edge of his coat, making a noise of displeasure, as the girl across from him smirked lightly, satisfied by his bullet-ridden ego.

Oh that was _it_, he thought as she ran forward again, guns pointed straight at him. He leapt into the air and fired a few shots himself as he soared above her—_just to scare her_, not to hit her or anything. He didn't want to hurt her. Why was this now a big deal for him?

Dante landed; she skidded to a stop. They spun on each other, one gun pointed directly at the other's face. Stalemate.

"To top it off," she added, moving to a standing position. Dante kept his aim on her head. "That filthy scum is my _father_!" She pointed at the man's corpse with her own gun, and Dante, sensing that their battle was over for now, lowered his own.

"Well, we have something in common," Dante said lightly, well aware that she was livid but unable to match her gravity with his own. He raised both guns to his chest, gesturing to himself. "I have a dysfunctional family too." Which wasn't a lie at all.

"And what would you know about _family_?" the girl demanded, aiming her gun at him again. He almost flinched, but at the words rather than the gun. "You're a _demon_! This is _my_ father..." She gestured to herself with her fist. "_My_ family! This was all supposed to end by _my hand_!"

Again, her gun was aimed at his face. Rather that stare at the gun in front of him, he stared straight into her eyes, not conveying any emotion. Just watching. She seemed scared, hurt, sad, angry, disappointed, conflicted... Dante wondered if she planned on shooting him again, out of whatever emotion prevailed over the confusion in her head, or maybe out of misplaced vengeance for killing her father. Had she figured out that he hadn't done it yet? Or had she always known, and had simply attacked him out of rage? There was no reason to correct her, no matter what she thought at this point.

More than ever he wanted to know: who are you? Where did you come from? What's your name? But, for once, he found that he was unable to speak.

Her resolve faltered and he followed her gun with his eyes as it lowered back down to her side. Her eyes followed the motion as well, but soon snapped back up to his. They looked at each other for a moment, awkwardly, painfully, until she turned to look at her father's body. He looked at the body for a split second, before instead focusing his gaze on the confusing girl in front of him, following a strand of her dark hair with his eyes. He took a step backward, feeling slightly uncomfortable but able to mask it as indifference with characteristic ease. "Aren't you going to shoot?" he finally asked, only a little surprised by the crassness of the way he searched for answers. Her silence was enough of an answer. He was almost disappointed. "That's a switch."

"Just go," she responded softly, dejectedly. "I don't care anymore."

Dante watched her for another moment before nodding lightly and shifting his weight. As he turned he patted his gun against his chest, a farewell and an "I'm sorry" all at once, even though she hadn't turned to see it. Her head was still lowered, staring straight down at her father's body, when he turned away and didn't look back.

Tucking his guns away, he laughed lightly, despite himself. "Family, huh?" he said quietly. His thoughts switched to Vergil and he forced himself to remember what he was _actually_ there to do, leaving the grieving girl in his wake.


	2. I,2: Blood and Bloodlines

Thanks to EricDraven for advising me to cut the chapters in half for easier reading!

Still don't own _Devil May Cry_. Darn.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part One: The Longest Night

_Chapter 2: Blood and Bloodlines_

Dante winced as Yamato cut into his side. More blood splattered onto the floor, and from the sharp look on Vergil's face, it looked like Rebellion had gotten him again too. The sight of their blood mixing together on the floor was almost gruesome, even for him. Shared bloodline or not.

Vergil was a fast and effective fighter, almost so fast at times that he seemed like a blue and white blur even to Dante's more than capable eyes. This was why Dante loved to challenge him, even if Vergil had an annoying tendency to defeat him in the end. Vergil was the one consistently difficult opponent that Dante had ever faced, lesser demons and average thugs constituting a bland, easily defeated medium that simply wasn't worth his time. He could meet his brother hit to hit, sword to sword, and now devil form to devil form, and feel the blood rushing through his body and his pulse racing and the bloodlust of battle.

And he was also stopping Vergil from opening up Hell too, but Dante selfishly wanted to beat Vergil more.

They rushed at each other again, swords meeting in the middle in a match of strength and willpower. Vergil stared back at him with eyes gleaming with determination, rage, and, oddly, a bit of excitement, stray hairs falling out of their usual perfect coif to hang across his face. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted to just past Dante's shoulder. In a moment of connection between the two twins, Dante knew exactly what was behind them, and as Vergil leapt back, swung his sword to slice a missile in half. Vergil completed the action by slicing it again, and the quarters fell uselessly to the ground.

_That girl_. She was standing back towards the entrance to the chamber, determined, her missile launcher pointed straight at them and the launch tube still smoking from the recent shot. What was she doing, butting in on this fight when it was none of her business? Couldn't she have just shot him earlier if she wanted to shoot him so badly? More importantly, she was staring at Vergil with malice, hardly acknowledging the other man in the room. As if they hadn't fought earlier. _As if he weren't the more handsome twin_.

He suddenly became hyper-aware of her every breath, every twitch, every blink. Her presence was like a nagging thought, preventing him from staying focused on the task at hand. She needed to leave before she got herself into more trouble. Already Vergil was looking back at her with cool interest, which Dante knew from experience was bad news.

Dante inhaled sharply and turned away from her. "Sorry, but this is no place for a little girl," he said, raising his sword to show Vergil that he was ready to continue their fight. Vergil, of course, only briefly glanced at Dante before looking back to the girl. Bastard. What was he thinking? "So _beat it_."

"Shut up!" she exclaimed, instantly wheeling her rocket launcher on him and firing. Clearly she didn't plan on leaving.

Dante leapt back, the missile passing in front of him. Vergil seemed to have torn his eyes off of the girl long enough to jump after him, opting to continue their fight. _Good_. Unfortunately, the girl was rushing towards them as well, undoubtedly to meddle. _Less_ good. He kept an eye on her as he and Vergil attacked and parried, then locked swords again. Vergil must have sensed her coming too, for he raised his katana to break the standoff just as she arrived on the spot, ready to spear him with the bayonet on her rocket launcher. He swung loosely—Dante noticed, almost imperceptibly, that Vergil's precision wasn't quite as sharp as it had been at the beginning of the fight—knocking back both the rocket launcher and Rebellion, causing them both to stumble backwards. Vergil tightened his grip on Yamato before attacking the disoriented girl, hitting her rocket launcher once more. Caught by surprise, she spun and tumbled to the floor a few feet away, landing uselessly on her stomach.

Dante gritted his teeth and lunged forward to attack Vergil, but his brother jumped into the air, seemingly to attack the girl again. Dante almost shouted a warning but noticed that she was now on her back, staring up at the oncoming attack with wide, scared eyes. More determined than ever, he swung his sword up to parry Vergil's, but he was knocked back by the impact. Vergil spun in the air before landing just in front of the girl, who had now recovered enough to block Yamato with her missile launcher just before it sliced her.

"You forced him into this!" she shouted, voice breaking as she pushed back against Vergil's attack.

Dante was surprised when Vergil weakened the force of his attack, his face softening in his version of surprise. What were they talking about, her father? What was going _on_? Dante tightened the grip on his sword and ran forward.

"Is that what you think?" Vergil's face remained as impassive as ever as he shook his head. "Foolish girl," he added condescendingly.

The girl's face widened in surprise at Vergil's words, but her gaze flitted upward suddenly as Dante lunged forward to strike at Vergil. He would have been angry at her for giving him away if Vergil hadn't sensed it first, taking advantage of her shock by spinning to block at Dante's attack. She seemed to snap back to attention at that point, spinning out of the way as both men continued attacking one another relentlessly, but Dante noticed out of the corner of his eye that she was looking down, distracted by her own thoughts. Well, at least she was out of the way. He could focus on attacking Vergil now.

They clashed swords again and again. Dante felt himself weaken considerably, and though Vergil's attacks were as strong as ever, his moves were erratic with fatigue. They were running on adrenaline by this point, not sure what they were doing exactly, so long as they could try to get a hit on the other.

All of a sudden there was an opening. Dante sliced forward, cutting into the flesh of Vergil's side, causing the other twin to spin from the impact. He could _end_ this battle right there, he thought, swinging his sword into place for a vertical slice. He just needed to make one more hit and Vergil could be down for a while. Then he could go back to that girl and find out what the _hell_ she was—

Dante grunted in pain as he felt Yamato slice his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Distracted. He got fucking distracted and missed his opening for one last blow, and in the heat of battle no less! What was he thinking? Was he really that worn out?

He got his answer when he fell to the ground, panting as blood dripped from the new wound across his abdomen. Across from him, Vergil was kneeling too, sword outstretched, glaring at Dante as if his look could kill. Dante adjusted his sword as if to prop himself up to stand, but his weight fell heavily against it and he couldn't move his limbs. He hung his head down, hearing nothing other than his and Vergil's heavy breaths, and, faintly, the girl's delicate inhale and exhale.

The sound of someone clapping filled the room, and Dante briefly wonder if that girl was really being that much of a _bitch_. But a voice soon joined the applause, and Dante lifted his head in frustration as a purple figure appeared.

"Bravo, bravo!" Jester said, stepping forward from the shadows with nothing short of confidence. "I never dreamed that things would go so smoothly." Jester stopped, not too far from the girl, who was looking away from the demon with apprehension and disgust. "Well done, everyone. Well done!"

Dante suddenly felt strength in his limbs, and he pushed himself up to stand, albeit slowly due to the pain. "You!" he said, his voice low and snarling. To his right, Vergil was also attempting to stand.

The girl, appearing to sense the threat, frowned and turned to face Jester, who suddenly appeared next to her. He grabbed onto her missile launcher and made a slurped lewdly with his tongue. "Don't be a bad girl, Mary!" he said menacingly, pulling her closer before lifting the launcher and tossing her aside with a rough shove. She landed on her stomach, crying out in pain. "Or you can expect a spanking from Daddy later!"

_That_ was her name. _Mary_. From where he had finally forced himself to stand, Dante watched as Mary writhed slightly on the ground, her muscles aching. But how could Jester have known? He gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more than to behead that stupid demon. But his limbs still felt heavy, and he struggled to move.

_Mary_. It was too pious for her, he decided. Her name was Mary, but it didn't suit her.

Jester continued grinning wildly, breaking into a stupid song and dance. "Jester's gonna spank your butt. Spank you on the bu—!"

"Insane buffoon!" Vergil interrupted, standing with his sword ready to strike. Damn it, how had Vergil already recovered when he hadn't? "I don't know where you came from, but you don't belong here." Vergil's face tightened in his frown as Jester derisively dropped Mary's missile launcher, which he was still holding. "Now leave!" he shouted, charging forward at the purple-clothed demon.

Vergil ran forward with no less anger and determination than Dante had ever seen him express when they fought. He swung his sword through the air, a blow which would have sliced Jester clean in half if the other demon hadn't stopped the sword with his hands only inches in front of his face. Vergil let out a small, almost fragile sound of disbelief, and it was right then that Dante knew that this wasn't going to end well.

"Zowie, that was close!" Jester said, just as lightly as ever. Vergil stared back, angry, attempting to force the blade through the demon's hands but unable to for some reason. "But you've taken quite a trouncing today, haven't you, _Vergil_?" Jester mocked, snaking one hand up the blade and moving it aside with two fingers, effortlessly. "You could've chopped me into confetti by now if you were in tip-top condition."

"Damn you!" Vergil snarled, his face dangerously close to Jester's. If Dante hadn't known better, he would guessed that Vergil would try to bite his nose off, if it meant drawing blood.

"You have lost..." Jester said, only it wasn't Jester, because his voice was lower and more menacing. Vergil and Mary noticed the shift too, because both shared similar expressions of shock, though Vergil stared straight at Jester while Mary kept her gaze averted, her face looking down in horror. On his own end, Dante was trying to figure out if someone else was throwing his voice, or maybe if they all had imagined it.

Taking advantage of Vergil's surprise, Jester shoved his free arm up, knocking it into Vergil's form. The half-demon skidded across the floor on his face before turning over, landing roughly on his back with a grunt.

"...because you have underestimated humans," Jester continued, only it wasn't Jester, it was that man. The creepy man from the shop. The dead man. Mary's father.

Mary looked up at her father, still lying on her stomach. Her eyes were wide and her brows lifted, a perfectly crafted expression of vulnerability, confusion, fear, sadness, anger, and any other conflicting emotion she must have been feeling at the time. It made her seem as young as she really was, rather than the hardened woman she attempted to be. "What's going on?" she gasped.

"Good girl," the man said, turning his head towards his daughter. He kept his chin high, almost aristocratically, a sharp contrast to Jester's constant movement. Were they the same person? Dante still couldn't wrap his mind around it. "Pure and innocent ... just like your mother."

Mary stared forward in absolute horror before pulling out one of her guns from its holster. "You bastard!" she exclaimed, pointing the gun at the air where her father had once been standing. Jester suddenly appeared behind her, but before she could even process this new information, he used one of his thin, clawed hands to grab her by the head, yanking it back painfully.

"It's time for your spanking, my dear!" Jester said as Mary raised her gun to shoot him away. Jester suddenly guided her head to the floor, pulled it up and then slammed it again the floor with a sickening crack.

Dante stayed frozen to the spot, not quite sure what was going on, nor how he should react to it. He wasn't scared—_him_, scared? That would be the day. But so many questions were running through his head that he wasn't sure how to process any of it. He wanted to know what the man had planned, why he was switching back and forth between that annoying-as-fuck demon and his normal human form, and what all of this meant for him, for them, for the rest of the world... For her. How was she doing, and how hurt was she? He couldn't see her face from where he leaned against Rebellion, only the back of her head, with Jester's white fingers and purple nails woven through the shiny black strands of her hair. It was sick.

"You want to know why the spell didn't break, hmm, Vergil?" Jester continued, releasing his grip on Mary's head to stand. His eyes glinted ferociously; he was _going_ somewhere with this speech of his, mocking Vergil for his inability to open the portal. Dante believed that the demon was secretly mocking him too, for his inability to move and defend his brother and the girl who was lying vulnerably on the floor. It wasn't so much what he said as it was the way he pranced around like he owned the place. He _didn't_. "You have the two amulets and Sparda's blood. You had everything you needed to unleash the evil!"

"I told you before," Dante said, finding bravado once more. He stood up straight and pointed at Jester with Ivory. "I don't like anybody who has a bigger mouth than mine."

Jester moved his hands up to his face in an expression of insincere shock and Dante, enraged, extended his arms and fired with both guns. Jester, however, was fast, appearing from place to place as he had earlier on in the tower, dancing to avoid Dante's uncharacteristically sloppy fire.

"You are wounded and weak," Jester taunted from the ceiling. He laughed, appearing right above Dante. "Even I can do..."

Dante gasped as Jester flew down at him, feet first, crashing straight into his face. Excruciating pain lit up his vision, turning it to white despite the feet covering his eyes as his head was forced to the ground, causing a new set of stars to burst in his vision.

"...this to you!" Jester finished, and the limbs that Dante hadn't even been aware were still in the air crashed to the ground with a heavy thud. Jester laughed, springing gracefully off of Dante's face, knowing full well that he had completely control of the situation.

Dante turned onto his side, wheezing as his broken nose healed itself—it was times like that he was really grateful for his accelerated healing, despite how sluggishly it was working. He looked across the room, past Jester-now-human-again's feet at Mary, who was beginning to stir where she had previously lain helplessly. She glanced at him, briefly, before looking down in shame and frustration as she tried to push herself up. Dante couldn't help but feel a little slighted.

"Two amulets ... a set of Sparda's blood," the man said, walking through the center of the room, in the middle of the three of them, towards Mary. "Now I need one more key." He reached down, grabbing Mary's discarded missile launcher before regally straightening again and continuing towards Mary. Dante winced, attempting to stand but still feeling too weak to do so. Some feet away, Vergil was doing a bit better, but still down for the count. "He sacrificed two things to suppress the tremendous force of this tower: his own Devil's blood, and a mortal priestess."

Without warning, the man forced the bayonet of the missile launcher into the flesh of her thigh. Mary's head shot up, eyes and mouth wide as she shouted in pain, a cry that she tried to suppress even as it ripped from her throat. She shuddered, lowering her forehead to the floor as she writhed lightly under the weight of the blade jammed in her leg.

Dante felt his fists clench in anger as he attempted to stand to help Mary. He wanted to look at her, comfort her, and though her face eventually turned in his direction her eyes were staring straight past him, at some unknown point as she gritted her teeth and attempted to control the small moans that were escaping despite herself. Blood was running down the sides of her thighs, pooling around her on the floor.

"I needed you," the man continued, his voice a low growl, "in whose body flows the same blood as the sacrificed woman. His spell cannot be undone without your blood!"

Off to his left, he heard Vergil rustle in another attempt to move. Dante would have teased his brother for sympathizing with a human when it was something that he so clearly would never do, but soon realized that Vergil was probably moving so he could stop his former assistant and take his place as the one with all of the power.

"It was quite a ride you know!" Jester exclaimed, having now taken the man's place. He ripped the blade out of Mary's leg, clumsily, and she cried out in pain again. She was bleeding heavily now, now that there was nothing blocking the entrance to the wound. "If any of your had died before getting here," he continued, dancing with the missile launcher in his hands, "our little plan would have gone to waste!" He swung the missile launcher through the air, drops of her blood flying all over. Dante was pretty sure he felt one as far back as he was nearly-standing.

Jester propped the missile launcher by the blade against the floor, leaning against it conversationally. "Therefore, my job was to make you battle each other in order to weaken you. But at the same time, I had to guide you here and make sure that you were kept alive. I even went so far as dressing like a complete idiot!" He laughed, and Dante nearly laughed too, his earlier opinion of Jester validated, particularly because Jester didn't seem to notice that he and Vergil were now standing and slowly moving towards him, and that Mary, while still on the floor, had regained a lot of her strength. "It's time for bed, Mary," Jester said menacingly, looking down at his daughter. "You can visit your dear mother."

He looked up, cackling wildly at the ceiling, but was quickly interrupted by Mary's leg kicking out and catching her missile launcher from where the demon was leaning against it. She spun, looking surprisingly confident despite what must have been excruciating pain in her leg, standing with her missile launcher pointed directly at Jester, who let out a small sound of surprise.

"Try me," she said, her voice cool.

Vergil and Dante met behind Jester, Vergil arriving only a second before Dante, much to Dante's dismay. Yamato and Rebellion crossed behind Jester's neck, ensuring that he couldn't escape. "It's time for the clown to bow out, Arkham," Vergil growled.

"Dude, the show's over!" Dante added, enjoying the feeling of being in power again despite the anger that bubbled under the surface of his skin.

"Impressive," Arkham said. Dante was starting to get weirded out by Arkham's constant, instantaneous transformations to and from Jester. "I expected nothing less from the Devil's descendants. But aren't you forgetting something, Vergil?" Dante glanced at Vergil, who was looking back at Arkham with uncharacteristic confusion. "The spell is broken. What do you think will happen next?" Arkham's voice slowed to a crawl as the sound of stone sliding against stone filed the air. Dante didn't dare to look away from Arkham now, unsure what the man had planned.

"Let's welcome chaos!" Arkham hissed.

The ceiling opened, the air turned red, and the floor shook. Dante cursed as he lost his balance, his sword flailing from its position near Arkham's neck, and to compensate he stabbed forward, hoping to skewer that bastard to hold him in place. Arkham dropped out of sight and Rebellion clashed in the middle with Yamato and Kalina Ann, Vergil and Mary having also apparently lost their balance once the floor started moving.

Suddenly, Dante felt his legs kicked out from under him, and a quick glance down showed that Arkham had merely ducked out of sight and was responsible. He felt the impact of Vergil being kicked into him before careening into Mary. The three were flung off of the platform, which had now risen a good thirty feet into the air, and he landed on the stone floor below, face first.

"_Fuck_," Dante hissed, propping himself up with a pained wince. He still wasn't healing well. Looking around, there was no one around him. Where were Vergil and Mary?

"Just sit and wait!" he heard Arkham call out from above them. Dante pushed himself to stand with Rebellion and randomly ran to his left. "Wait for the birth of a new God! I shall take over the power of Sparda!"

There _she_ was, staring up at her father as he laughed maniacally, arms outstretched. It was a miracle that she was standing with that wound, but it seemed as though the adrenaline rush of her fear and frustration was keeping her on her feet. She was stepping backwards, fists clenched, and her face twisted into a rather attractive scowl. He felt himself slow simply to observe her before noticing that the floor behind her was crumbling and she was walking straight back, completely clueless. He ran forward, wanting to call out to her but his voice was trapped in his throat. As if on cue, the ground broke and Mary lost her footing with a startled cry. Dante was barely faster, stumbling, nearly falling onto his face as he reached out to grab her, managing to catch himself on his knees. He grabbed her wrist in the nick of time, taking comfort in the small noises that she made when she looked up to see her savior.

And there she was, sweaty and bloody and startled and _safe_. He wondered how he must have looked to her, if she still saw him as the horrible demon that she had previously tried to gun down, or instead as someone who was looking out for her safety. Her face softened but was still unreadable.

They dangled until the sound of Arkham's laughter had faded.

"Grab my other hand," Dante instructed, reaching down with his other hand.

Mary wordlessly grabbed it, allowing herself to be lifted up. Dante instinctively pulled her close to him, nearly into his arms, but caught himself at the last second. Thinking quickly, he placed his hands on her shoulders in a more friendly gesture. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mary answered, looking down at the floor then up towards where her father had disappeared. It was only with great effort that she looked back at him, indignantly, letting him know that she didn't _want_ to meet his eyes. "Thank you," she said uncomfortably, fidgeting in his grip.

"Sure thing." Dante instantly released her, and then stood, brushing off his coat. "I've saved you twice now. You owe me."

Mary scoffed, not standing immediately in favor of leaning against the wall of the new spire, wincing slightly as she dragged her bloody leg with her. When she had it stretched in front of her, she leaned her head back, releasing a pained sigh. Dante couldn't help but look at her exposed neck and delicate collarbone, upon which rested a cord with a red pendant that he hadn't noticed before. It was kind of pretty, in a simple way.

More importantly, he noticed the trail of blood that had followed her wounded leg, and the new pool that was gathering around where it rested now. Blood had dried in lines along the sides of her leg, caked at the front of the thigh and knee. The blood had even stained her socks, skirt, and blouse. She wouldn't leave the tower _alive_ if she didn't do something about her leg.

She noticed him staring at her legs, and, assuming that he was simply checking her out, glared at him in annoyance. He shrugged, not bothering to plead his innocence, and offered as an excuse: "You should probably take care of that leg."

"Yeah, I know," Mary said, looking up at him through slitted eyes. She reached into one of the pockets of her skirt and pulled out some gauze and bottles of what looked to be rubbing alcohol and antibacterial cream. With a little effort on her part, she moved her knee closer to her chest, exposing the back of her leg. Carefully, she prodded at her thigh, wincing when she found the open wound. Then she reached for the bottle of rubbing alcohol, opening it, and began pouring it over the wound with a grimace.

Dante looked away from Mary and towards the pit that she had nearly fallen into. Suddenly, it occurred to Dante: where was Vergil? He looked around, hoping to see some sign of Vergil but unwilling to leave Mary when she was vulnerable like this. Call it twin's intuition, but he got the sense that Vergil had met the fate that Mary had almost met, falling into one of the newly made crevices. Wherever he was he could take care of himself, but Dante still felt a little concerned for his brother. He dismissed it as disappointment that he didn't get to finish him off himself.

He allowed himself to glance back at Mary, who was now she glaring at him intently, fingers stopped in the act of disinfecting her cut. What did she expect him to _help_? Even if he knew first aid, she probably would have shot him for going anywhere _near_ her thigh. No thank you. Better to play it safe. Conversation would be easier.

"What?" Dante asked, his tone a little harsher than was needed, but he couldn't take it back anyway.

She scowled, lifting her chin slightly—kind of like her father did earlier, but _that_ was something he didn't plan on mentioning—and looked back down at her thigh.

"So, Mary—"

Her eyes widened and her face froze, and she instinctively reached for her gun. "_Don't_ call me that," she warned, her head high, the proud woman scorned. The underlying frustration broke the illusion, despite the steadiness of her gun and gaze, through a trembling lip and thick, painful swallow.

Dante frowned, leaning back and crossing his arms. "But that _is_ your name, right?"

"It's _not_," she insisted, releasing the safety.

"Okay, I get it," he said, lifting his hands in surrender. She lowered her gun and continued to deal with her wound. _Obviously_ Mary was her real name, except for the part where it wasn't. He was almost relieved, because the name Mary as awkward associated with her. It was too girly, and while she _was_ just a girl, he felt the need to insist, it was belied her intensity. There was something about her that was older and more scarred than a name like _Mary_ could imply. "So you really weren't kidding when you said you had no name," he added, more to himself than to her.

"What of it?" she—once again simply _she_, the girl—asked sharply, glancing up at him with cold eyes while her hands closed the bottle of rubbing alcohol. The wound was still bleeding, but there probably wasn't much that she could do about that until she bandaged it. Such a bad cut would definitely scar, but he didn't think that she was fixating on that, given the number of other scars on her body.

"Well, I don't know what to call you, since I can't call you Mary," he answered playfully, hoping she would lighten up a bit. He sincerely doubted it, but it was worth a shot. She was just so _serious_ that it was almost contaminating, spreading to his essence as well. Granted, a lot had happened since he first entered Temen-ni-gru, but he definitely didn't have the same light-hearted vision of his mission that he had assumed would be the case earlier. It wasn't just ass-kicking now—it was something more, and Dante was slightly disturbed that his opinion had changed.

"You don't have to call me _anything_," she told him bluntly, now messily smearing antiseptic cream over her leg. She looked like she was used to doing first aid, but not necessarily good at it. Just good enough to get by. "I don't exactly plan on seeing you after this."

Harsh. He chose to ignore it. "Then what'll I call you when I remember you?" he joked, but she didn't answer, choosing instead to unwrap the gauze. Dante sighed and leaned against the wall, shutting his eyes for a moment to regain his focus. But rather than seeing comforting scenes, his mind was flooded with images of her, Vergil, her fighting Vergil, Arkham or Jester or _whoever_, the bayonet in her leg, all of their blood—

He only reopened his eyes when he heard her shifting around. There she was, already standing, the gauze wrapped fairly neatly around her upper thigh. A crimson splotch was already soaking through to the surface, but that didn't come as a surprise to him. Hopefully the wound would stop bleeding soon.

"And here I was about to ask if you needed any help," Dante said, smiling, hoping that his smile would prove as infectious as her severity.

"Looks like I didn't need it," she answered coolly, picking up her missile launcher and starting to walk around the new tower, looking up as if she were searching for something. He couldn't help but notice how hard she was trying to not make any conversation with him. Apparently, she only spoke when it related to her mission and duty. Very driven, goal-oriented girl. They were almost opposites.

"Are you gonna go?" he asked, walking behind her, figuring she couldn't resist answering a question like that. Anything but the stony silence she was treating him with.

"Yes," she answered, apparently having found what she was looking for because she started taking a few steps back from the Tower. She didn't even bother looking at him as she continued: "I'm going to finish him off."

Her determination was almost cute, but naïve. Did she actually think she stood a chance? "Well you might as well forget it," Dante said, walking closer to her. She didn't flinch, still glancing around the upper reaches of the tower. "'Cause you're no match for him."

"Regardless, I must go." She took a few slow steps forward still looking away from him, her voice even as she spoke. "I had a chance to stop him before, but I couldn't." Her voice dropped in volume, giving away the regret that she couldn't help but feel. "I'm responsible for all this mess."

"Responsible?" Dante asked, a little taken aback as he stepped even closer to her. She was oddly self-centered, assuming that she was the only guilty party in this entire ordeal. There were _four_ players in this game, _four_ motives and drives. Their individual desires had created this outcome, Arkham rising to the top like some kind of puppet master pulling the strings. Loath as he was to admit it, he felt a little responsible too, but she seemed to want to bear the brunt of the blame. "Does it bother you that much?"

"He's my _father_," she insisted, turning to face him for the first time in a while. Her eyes were fierce, and he felt himself missing the look of surprised gratitude she had given him when he caught her. "Besides, who _else_ can undo what he's done?"

She stepped away from him, and Dante took a step back, a little offended that she didn't think he could do it. Oh, he could do anything he fucking _wanted_ to do, if he put his mind to it. She was just too stubborn to trust anyone else.

She lifted her rocket launcher onto her shoulder and fired the bayonet, which shot out on a rope and embedded itself into the stone far up the wall. She gave two trial tugs to make sure it was stable before looking back at him, her face stern but forgiving. "A demon like you," she said, pausing for a fraction of a second before continuing, "wouldn't understand..."

He _was_ still just a demon to her.

And just like that, she turned back towards the wall and released the grappling line, pulling her up with dangling legs. She zipped up the side of the tower before disappearing into the shadows. Dante was left alone in silence, shifting his weight.

"Father and family, huh?" he asked the air. He looked towards the pit that she had almost fallen into, wondering if Vergil was lying unconscious at the bottom or already climbing out. Knowing Vergil, it could be anything.

And there it was. His own sense of responsibility in this situation was informing him of his duty. What he needed to do next. Looked like her severity had beat out his smile after all. "Well I'll go too," he said, maybe to her or maybe to himself. He didn't know. There were a lot of questions he wanted answered, or maybe just needed to answer himself.

His sense of humor bit back and, for posterity, he called out to her despite the fact that she wouldn't hear it: "But you'd better hurry if you don't want me to take all the credit!"

Now satisfied, he turned away to continue on his_ new_ mission: to stop Arkham from opening up Hell and taking his father's power. Maybe kick some demon ass along the way—scratch that: he _definitely_ planned on kicking some demon ass along the way. But his vision was flooded with a heart-shaped face; lips twisted into a frustrated, pouty snarl; and wide, angry eyes that had seen more than most humans would ever seen, and whose battle-scared gaze contradicted the inexperience of the girl who wore it.


	3. I,3: Knights and Ladies

Welcome back, everyone! Thanks to all who reviewed—your feedback was very much appreciated. For those of you who haven't reviewed, but are still following the story ... as much as I'd like your feedback too, you know what, I'm a serial lurker myself, I almost never review, I don't blame you. Continue lurking, my friends. Continue lurking.

On that note, if you've written something DxL, chances are I read it and I enjoyed it. But is it just me, or is there _not_ enough DantexLady in this fandom? Seriously.

Anyway, what to expect in the future: three parts, four chapters each, so a grand total of 12 chapters. That's nine chapters after this one. Excited? I am. I'm going to be alternating between writing for this one and writing for another fic that I'm working on, but this is definitely a doable project, certainly because I'm building up a speedy writing ability. I would ask you to please be patient if there's a dry spell for a few weeks: it means that schoolwork is destroying my soul. I'm on a bit of a kick right now, so things will slow down a bit anyway, I'll say something on my profile if I anticipate any major delays.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Chapter One: The Longest Night

_Part 3: Knights and Ladies_

He found Mary-but-not-Mary again in a library. Apparently she had figured out how to get through the tower, which he had struggled with slightly as some of the paths he had taken earlier had been destroyed in favor of similar but different ones. He had definitely taken a few wrong turns, and was slightly impressed that she had gotten to this point, particularly with her leg in that condition.

Dante hadn't even intended to venture into the library itself, as the door he needed to go through was right next to the one he had used to enter the room in the first place, but stopped when he heard the distinctive sound of someone panting. Someone _female_. Knowing full well who it was, he stepped into the circular room, turning until he saw her tucked away against a wall in the back, missile launcher leaning against the wall. She was doubled over in fatigue and pain, one hand pressed against her thigh before she moved it to cover her eyes, which he guessed had started to water or something.

She looked so vulnerable like that, more than she had when she was staring down at her father's not-quite-a-corpse, or when Arkham showed his face again, or any other moment when her face had softened from the usual harsh glare that she wore. It might have been because her face was angled away from him and her body was crumpled from the strain of her journey and injury. He could only imagine the look in her eyes.

So Dante continued forward, walking closer to her, to check up on her and give her a bit of reassurance.

"What's wrong, you tired?" he asked, then turned to continue past her. "Then stand back: I'll take care of this."

So maybe his version of reassurance didn't include much _comfort_, but hell, he tried his hardest. Can't teach an old dog new tricks, after all.

"No, _you_ stand back!" she said, and he knew from the sound of her movements that she was now standing behind him. He stopped dead in his tracks, though, when he heard the distinct sound of a gun being pulled out of its holster and the click of a safety being released. What, she planned on shooting him _again_? This was ridiculous: sure, he was an asshole sometimes, but he was only looking out for her. Why couldn't she see that? Had she been anyone else, he would have already impaled her with Rebellion, but because she was a human, or a girl, or a _pretty_ human girl, she had gotten his pity. Still, his patience had run thin. He didn't want to waste any more time on her if she was just going to keep on trying to kill him.

He spun on his heel to face her and grabbed a hold of her gun. In an attempt to prove a point to himself, he swiftly lowered it so it was aimed at his abdomen, and hardly flinched when she—consciously or unconsciously, he wasn't sure but assumed it was the former—pulled the trigger. The bullet passed harmlessly through him, and he could already feel the wound healing. It was no big deal.

But there, she was standing a foot away from him with an appalled look on her face, as if she were still surprised that her bullets wouldn't kill him. Disgusted, for the same reason. He was a demon to her. Nothing more than the next kill on her list, after she finished off her father and maybe Vergil. He was apparently no better than any of the scum who was _actually_ trying to kill her.

It was the first time in a long time that someone had gotten so far under his skin. The only other people who had managed to do so were his parents and Vergil. Of _course_ he felt a connection to them, because they were family, so there was no avoiding it. They all made him question his demonic heritage in different ways: Sparda was the thing he would be compared to, the reminder that there was no way he could escape his demonic side; Vergil rejected humanity, and thus embodied Dante's own fears that he would one day do the same; his mother represented the people that would get hurt, get killed, leave him behind, and the reason he was so afraid of getting close to anyone.

This girl reminded him of all of that, and more. She reminded him of his demonic side, told him that it was a _problem_. Something to be ashamed of. To be honest, it _was_ something that he was ashamed of. But that wasn't her decision. It wasn't her call. It was _his_.

She made _him_ feel vulnerable, the same vulnerability that he equated with _her_ and her youth. And for that reason, it made her stronger than him.

If she wanted to play with the men, then she would get her wish.

He snarled, hoping to see her back away in fear, but to his annoyance she didn't. "I've told you, you can't do it!" he insisted through gritted teeth, leaning closer to her as his grip on her gun tightened. "Don't you get it? This is _not_ a human's job—"

"_You're_ the one who doesn't get it!" she interrupted, matching his intensity with her own. She looked at him squarely in the eye, head held high. "It's not something you can reason with. It has _nothing_ to do with me being a human and you being a demon."

Oh, well, that was a relief. _Hardly_. There was still a major distinction, but it just didn't _matter_ in this case. The fact that she _selectively_ acknowledged the importance of his bloodline frustrated him to no end.

"I'm driven by the inability to forgive him!" she continued, ripping the gun from his grip and pressing it against his jugular notch. The sheer audacity of the motion caused him to instinctively take a step back—she ran with it, forcing him backwards with each step and wide gesture, emphasizing her point against his skin. "My soul is _screaming_, demanding me to kill him!"

He finally stopped moving, snatching the gun right out of her hand and holding it firmly in his own. Her own arm jerked away, falling roughly to her side as she continued to stare him down, eyes blazing. "That's enough motivation to keep me going," she concluded, voice thick, taking a few disdainful steps backwards. She refused to tear her eyes away from his own, and Dante would have been intimidated if he hadn't ever stared down his brother before.

She turned to pick up her missile launcher but continued looking at him through the corners of her eyes, distrustfully, so that he only saw the one reddish brown eye glancing over at him. It was so easy to forget that her other eye was blue-green, although in this light it looked pure green. God, her eyes were confusing. Like everything else about her. Contradictory. Oddly alluring.

"Besides," she added, walking right past him, only turning her head to look forward again when it was physically impossible for their eyes to stay locked, "this is _my_ family matter. You should stay out of it."

Dante almost laughed at her ignorance. _Foolishness_, Vergil would have said, and for the second time that night he seemed to be agreeing with his twin. What, she hadn't noticed the _family resemblance_? Did she think that all demons in human for had white hair and blue-gray eyes? She wasn't the only person there with a familial score to settle, after all.

Well. Clearly she wasn't going to let them _both_ continue up the tower, and Dante didn't think she had it in her to get the job done, especially not with that wound. It came down to this. He would have to stop her.

He turned to face her, still simultaneously amused and pissed off by this entire situation and her and Arkham and Vergil and _her_ and ready to do something drastic. "Okay, lady—" he wondered when she had gone from _girl_ to _lady_ in his mind, but figured it was similar response to the one he had hours earlier, when it was his job to name her and he had shrugged off the responsibility— "I get the picture now."

She turned to face him, eyebrows raised in expectancy.

"But I can't just sit back and watch either," Dante continued. "I'm pretty pissed at him too, you know." He wasn't sure if he was thinking about Arkham or Vergil anymore, but at this point it was almost irrelevant. He planned on beating them _both_ anyway. And her, if he needed to, but his resolve wasn't quite as firm there, despite the confidence with which he threw her gun across the floor, skidding to her feet.

She looked down, as if to move to pick it up, but before she could so much as twitch he pulled out Ebony and Ivory, aiming them at her. "Now. Get out of my way, or there will be some consequences," he threatened, his voice commanding despite the guilt that was starting to nag at the back of his mind.

She looked back up at him, eyes wide, offended that he would now turn his guns on _her_. As if she hadn't been doing that all night. With a furious scowl, she answered: "Fair enough." She swung her missile launcher around so that it was aimed directly at him, now smug and confident in her ability to defeat him. "I wasn't planning to let any demons live anyway." She smiled remorselessly, but there was something about the way her lips curved that was oddly seductive. He realized, right there, as her words slowed meticulously as she added: "Not even _one_," that it was the closest thing to a smile that he had ever seen on her face.

With that, she fired a single missile from her launcher, which whizzed towards him with deadly precision. He leapt into the air, spinning a bit as the missile exploded into the bookcase, underneath him, heat radiating against his back as bits of shrapnel and charred books scattered into the air. Unsurprisingly, the bookcase held—say what you want about demons, but they built things to last knowing how much damage they tended to cause—and Dante landed in front of it again, guns aimed directly at her as loose sheets of paper slowly rained down around them. It was all a matter of who made the first move.

For a human, he had to hand it to her, though: she was one tough lady.

She moved first, swinging her missile launcher out and firing the grappling hook, which pulled her out of sight. She must have figured out by this point that Dante could match her in close combat, so her best chance was in coming at him out of nowhere. Good strategy. But where was she? He moved forward, looking around for any sign of her presence amongst the slight labyrinth of bookshelves.

"Come on out, babe, you can't hide from me forever," he said, eyes darting around for any signs of movement. He could sense her somewhere nearby, but couldn't place exactly where she was.

Suddenly he heard a rain of bullets coming up behind him, and leapt up to avoid getting pelted. He spun in the air to see where they were coming from—and there she was, standing on one of the bookshelves, guns pointed at him. He grinned, pressing one foot against the bookshelf next to him to push himself even farther up into the air, moving to his left to land on the bookshelf next to hers.

Her eyes widened, surprised that he had spotted her, and she fired another missile at him, escaping again as he dodged the blast. Damn, she was good at this evasive game—he would have to catch _her_ by surprise instead.

As quietly as he could, he ran along tops of the bookshelves until he saw her, looking around furiously, standing right under him. He took a quick moment to look down at her—from his angle, he could _totally_ see her cleavage—before jumping down. He landed right next to her, pinning her between the bookcase and his own body. She yelped in response, frozen in surprise.

"What's wrong, little lady?" he said lowly, one arm on either side of her shoulders, a little laughter in his voice. "You scared?"

She flushed in anger, before digging into her pockets and shoving something into his chest. He instinctively reached for whatever it was she had given him, only half-aware of the fact that she had just hightailed it out of there with her grappling hook, leaving him behind with grenades in his hands.

_Grenades?_

He threw them aside and jumped away with a resounding: "Holy _shit_!" He barely avoided the blast—had he hesitated, she could have really gotten him there. But more importantly: _since when did she have grenades?_ That chick sure had a lot of tricks up her sleeve. Well played.

"What's wrong, demon?" he heard her ask from right behind him, her voice husky. He spun to face her, and she was standing there, with one hand against her hip and the other cradling her missile launcher, a smug look on her face. She looked good. "_You_ scared?"

"Hardly," Dante answered flirtatiously, pulling out his guns to point straight at her neck.

She smirked, chin held high, eyes widening in determination as the bayonet fired again and she was pulled out of sight. Her departure was accompanied by the distinct sound of metal falling against stone, and he looked down to see three or four more grenades right underneath him.

"_Fuck_!" he shouted, once _again_ barely escaping the explosion as he jumped up and over the bookcase. Fool him _once_, shame on her; but _twice_? This was ridiculous. She was probably grinning in sadistic pleasure wherever she was hiding, prepared to shoot him again and throw more _fucking grenades_ at him. How many did she _have_, anyway?

As he had anticipated, he only moved a few feet to his right before being rained on by bullets again, a few grazing his arms and neck. Still, a quick glance up at her showed that she was breathing heavily under the effort, already tired from the evasive game that she was playing. He would just have to use that to advantage, tiring her out until she had to lose. Simple. He would start with scare tactics.

Dante pulled out Rebellion and held it in an attack position, scanning the area for wherever that lady was hiding. When another barrage of bullets came at him from behind he spun and, seeing her, lunged forward, sword drawn and ready to strike. She made a face not unlike the one she had worn when Vergil attacked her in the basement as she lifted her missile launcher, using it to repel Dante's sword. Her breath was quick and scared, shocked by the turn of events and his apparent attempts to kill her. Maybe she had assumed when they had fought earlier and a number of other times that he wasn't going to actually hurt her. This was still the case, but what she didn't know he could twist to his advantage.

He threw more of his weight into the sword, putting more pressure on her arms. She stared up at him fearfully before frowning, gathering her wits together and pushing back roughly against him. He purposefully released his weight, letting her slip out underneath him and dash away. Surprisingly, though, she turned right back around, placed her missile launcher against the floor and, after a moment, fired several heat-seeking missiles at him at once. It was _definitely_ an attack of desperation, he noted as he jumped into the air, soaring over the explosion and landing right behind her.

Quickly replacing Rebellion against his back, Dante put his hands on her shoulders before she was able to react to his presence, causing her back to straighten instantly and muscles to tense. "Gotcha," he said quietly, smiling despite the fact that she wasn't looking back at him.

There was a lull. She must have been figuring out what to do next—or perhaps why he wasn't doing anything else. Dante kept his hands on her shoulders, tightening his grip slightly, almost possessively, maybe trying to comfort her or loosen her up.

Suddenly, she spun out of his grasp, swung her missile launcher over her shoulders and reached into her pockets. She must have pulled out five or six more grenades, pelting them at the ground by his feet—he responded by jumping up, kicking against the bookshelves to stay in the air as the grenades exploded underneath him.

When she was out of grenades, he dropped back to the floor and started walking towards her, slowly, trying to show that he wasn't intimidated by her. She reached for one of her guns, walking backwards while firing at him several in succession until the clip ran empty. Her bullets, oddly, didn't even graze the skin, whizzing harmlessly by him. She was a sloppy shot when she was worked up. He had already kind of figured that one out when they fought in that one hallway, by Arkham's so-called dead body.

Dante continued walking towards her, face serious, as she reached a shaking hand into her pocket to pull out her extra ammo. Her hands fumbled, dropping the clip, the gun following its path to the floor as she turned and dashed. He sighed, and followed her.

He found her again making her way towards the two sets of doors, as if she had been trying to escape their battle. It was a bit of a coward's move, but because she was heading for the door _up_, he guessed that she planned on getting away from him to continue her path towards the top of the tower. _Clever_, but not clever enough. He jumped up, kicking against the wall to fly over her and land right in her path, effectively blocking her exit.

Judging by the erratic steps she started to take backwards, the shaking hand that held her gun, and the terrified look on her face, Dante guessed that this fight was just about over.

He walked towards her, again, as she emptied her clip at the air around him. She was pressed up against the wall in a battle stance, too scared to pull out her missile launcher and blow him to bits at point-blank range—though judging by her shots now, he wondered if she would have hit with _that_ either.

She was soon out of bullets, but continued to fire her empty gun as if one could appear out of nowhere and _stop_ him. She lowered her head in shame and defeat, eyes squeezed shut and lip bitten, as he closed the distance between their bodies. She didn't put up much resistance when he pushed her gun hand away, letting it fall limply to her side; nor did she push him away when he rested one hand on the wall behind her and stood close.

For a moment, nothing was said as she looked up at him, eyes wide. With what, he wasn't sure: it could have been fear, but it could have been expectation. But what did she expect him to do, finish her off? He loosened his body language and lowered his head a little closer to hers, hoping she would understand that he wasn't a threat anymore and pull out some secret knife she had hidden against her stomach.

"I'll take care of him," Dante said after a second, his voice gentle in its promise. It's true, he would: he would take care of her father _and _of Vergil. It was something that planned on doing regardless, but if she couldn't go then she needed to know that someone would do it _for_ her.

He felt and saw her muscles go slack, her face softening as it watched him. What was she thinking? What was she _ever_ thinking? One minute she was shooting him, the next she guiltily lowered her gun. She was quiet and reserved, if not a little vulnerable, but then she would change gears completely and turn into this feisty, violent woman and rail on him for being a demon. That would bring them full circle, back to the gun pointed at his head. He was frustrated, incapable of understanding this girl no matter how hard he tried. He had found out more about her in the past night than he had ever _wanted_ to learn about any chick he got to know, but he still only knew her in a limited sense. Sure, he knew her past, her anger, her mission, her hatred of demons; but there had to be more to her, more stories behind each physical and emotional scar, more details beyond a rejected name, a uniform, two mismatched eyes, and murderous rage. For once he was putting in the effort to understand a chick—to understand _anything_ beyond its surface value, really—but he was drawing up blanks. It reminded him of why he usually didn't bother.

And she was still staring at him.

Her body was open to his, mainly due to the combat stance she had assumed earlier when shooting at him, legs askance and back pressed up against the wall. His legs were between hers, his face less than a foot from hers, their breaths mingling in the negative space between them. She had done nothing to correct it though, partially because he had her a bit pinned there, or maybe out of fear of moving lest he attack her. But she didn't look like she was scared of him at all, and she definitely didn't look like she was concentrating on a way to escape. She was just waiting for him to say or do something, or move, or ... he didn't know. He honest to God had no fucking clue what was running through this lady's mind, and he surprised himself with how much that really bothered him.

He had to do something before...

He blinked.

He looked down.

Her lips were parted.

He looked back up at her eyes.

They were waiting for him.

There was an off chance, perhaps, that she wouldn't be so closed-off to him than he had previously assumed. She wasn't scared. She had been worked up earlier, but she was calm now. Waiting. Maybe it wouldn't be so awful to lean in. Test the water. See what she said, if she'd push him away or–_hopefully_?—reciprocate.

Since when did he hope...?

He leaned in.

She made a small noise of shock and, squirming, turned her face away from his face and her eyes from his eyes. It was obviously an instinctive reaction, but in that disappointing instant, he was unable to gauge how disgusted she was, if her eyes bore angry holes on the spot on the floor where they now rested their gaze, if she was rejecting him because she wasn't interested, because she had never kissed anyone before, because he was a demon—

That must have been it.

Dante quickly recovered, pushing himself away from the wall to turn and walk away. At any rate, he had beaten her in battle, so he was entitled to continue on his mission. Best to get away before she could say anything, yell at him, shoot him—

"Why do you care so much?"

His foot dragged against the floor, stopping him in his tracks at her words. What could he tell her? What _was_ the answer? One answer came to mind, but he wasn't sure how well that one would blow over, so he opted for the one that he should have told her a long time ago.

"This whole business started with my father," he started, turning to face her again. She was looking back at him in interest, clearly intrigued by what he was saying, "sealing the entrance between the two worlds." Regaining his bravado, he walked closer to her, gesturing with familiar intensity. He was covering up for himself. It felt like he was lying. "And now, my brother is trying to break that spell and turn everything into demonville. This is my family matter too."

Her eyes widened in realization: _now_ she got it. Now she understood who he was, why he was here, why Arkham had needed him there too. She saw the family resemblance and the need to make things right. She dropped her head in shame, because she knew that she had been wrong about him.

Dante felt a bit bad for the guilt trip, but knew that it had been inevitable. Still, he could at least cheer her up a bit. He turned, taking a few steps away from her. "Quite frankly, at first, I didn't give a damn." He turned his head over his shoulder to glance back at her before letting the rest of his body follow through with the action. "But because of _you_, I know what's important now. I know what I need to do."

They stood, staring at each other for a moment. Her gaze was calm, contemplative, and it was clear that she was soaking in the information that he had just presented her. The moment was soothing, and he almost smiled despite himself. Still, he felt the urge to get out of there, worried that she would say something about earlier, about what he had almost done. The moment was _over_.

With a short nod, he turned to walk away.

"Wait!" she called out from behind him. He wondered what she looked like, if her eyes were pleading or serious or angry or something else entirely. Was she reaching out a hand to grab him? To hold him? To strangle him?

What did she _want_?

He was almost afraid to find out.

"Trust me!" Dante said, turning to face her with his arms extended lightheartedly. She was looking back at him, one hand on the strap of her missile launcher, her face determined but otherwise unreadable. He got the sense that she didn't plan on attacking him, though, so chanced to take a step forward. "I'll make things right for you. That's what _my_ soul is telling me to do." He hoped she remembered her own words from earlier, and that she understood the implications.

Looking down, she removed the missile launcher from her shoulder and held it out in front of her. "Use this."

She would lend him her missile launcher? He wondered how she intended on defending herself without it, but trusted her judgment. He was a little moved by the action anyway, so opted not to question it. "How much is it going to cost me?" he joked as he reached for it.

Surprisingly, she pulled the missile launcher right out of his reach. Tease. "You can give me your name," she offered, looking at him with the utmost sincerity.

Dante considered this question for a moment. For a moment, he wanted to tell her to use whatever name she had been using before, wondering if it was "that hot guy in red," or "the asshole who keeps on pestering me." Or maybe it was "that demon," or maybe just "that man." Maybe she switched between them, like he had. Maybe he had started as one and turned into something else, just like she had gone from "that girl" to "that lady."

"That man" and "that lady". What an odd pair.

But he opted to tell her the truth; after all, she wanted his name. She was interested enough to hear it. And he would tell her.

"Dante," he said after a moment.

A smile suddenly graced her face, and she held out her missile launcher towards him. He reached out and took it from her with slight resistance—clearly this wasn't easy for her to do, which just made the gesture even kinder. Now that the missile launcher was in his hands, he could clearly see the inscription on the side: "Kalina Ann." He guessed that's what she called it. Kalina Ann. It was a pretty name. Was _that_ her name now...? No, she was someone else.

Dante hoisted Kalina Ann onto his shoulder and with one meaningful glance, hoping that his silent "thank you" had been understood, he turned to walk away. He was like a knight, walking into battle with favor from a lady of court. His Lady. Lady Mary. Only her name wasn't Mary anymore.

"Dante," he heard her say, and when he turned to face her, she was looking back at him with a soft face and pleading eyes. "Please, free my father."

He would take care of this. Make things right for her. "I will," he promised, and it occurred to him that he had been right all along, that his cop out answer had been the right one, "Lady."

With that, Dante continued along his path, through the door and up the tower, unsure of what he felt but recognizing that it was right.


	4. I,4: Shared Mission

Hey everyone! Thanks for your support—I'm so glad that everyone is enjoying the story so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy it! I'm sticking to a pretty steady update schedule right now, so hopefully I can keep it up... Work got pretty overwhelming earlier this week and the rest of the fall is probably going to be more of the same, but I'll try to update as regularly as I can manage. Every two weeks, probably (I'm alternating with another story right now, so when it comes down to it I'm actually writing a chapter a week... And the other story has _mad_ long chapters!)

Anyway, this chapter marks the last bit of almost-strictly in-game stuff. I might throw in bits of actual scenes in part three, but this is the last chapter where I'm following a specific framework.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part One: The Longest Night

_Chapter 4: Shared Mission_

If there was one uncomfortable truth that Dante had resisted for the longest time, it was that he had the capacity to care. There was something about fighting Lady that made this fact impossible to deny, despite his best efforts. Years of living on his own after his mother's death and brother's disappearance had left him resentful and independent. Taking demon hunting jobs, opening his shop, it had all been for the thrill of the hunt rather than to defend those who were asking for help.

Or, at least, that was what he had assumed. Suddenly he sympathized with his father, who had gone through his own moral awakening 2000 years earlier.

All of his thoughts were confirmed when, along his continued path, he entered a circular chamber and found himself staring at his shadow, a dark figure with glowing red eyes that was staring right back at him.

"I know why you're here," Dante said confidently, laughing lightly as the lights quickly flickered so that the shadow appeared in different parts of the room. "You're here to ask me some questions." Actually, he had no way of knowing that for sure, but the thought of the whole "metaphorical inner struggle brought to reality" was way too _classic_ to _not_ be the case.

The lights stopped flickering and Dante felt his shadow-self appear behind him, so he spun, a smirk on his face. "Well too bad." The issue was pretty much _decided_ by this point, so the whole idea of the battle had come maybe thirty minutes too late. "I've already answered them myself. I don't _need_ you anymore."

The shadow flared, pulling his own identical sword from his back at a deliberate pace. The question hung in the air, clear as ever: what _did_ he need, then? There had to be something else besides the need to fight, whether for responsibility or fun or vengeance or whatever.

Hell if _he_ knew what.

When he finally made it to the top of Temen-ni-gru, having just spent an entire night climbing it and climbing it again, he allowed himself to look down once more. He knew now that he wasn't just acting on his own behalf, or even just on Lady's. It was to defend the little people down there, the survivors in the destroyed city and everyone else who unknowingly were vulnerable to the same threat. Humans couldn't handle this—there were a few exceptions, or maybe just one Lady. Where were the SWAT teams and rescue helicopters, patrolling, rescuing survivors and shooting at the demons on the prowl? He was on his own—or not entirely, if Lady would stick around to help. Knowing that he had this power wasn't encouraging so much as it added a sense of duty, necessity. _He_ held the fate of the world in his hands.

_Shit_. Well. He wasn't going to think about _that_ anymore. It was easy to just be self-centered and flippant in the face of danger.

Still, Dante knew, later on as he fought Vergil in the space between Hell and Earth, that he could keep up with his brother in this fight. Something was driving him forward now that hadn't been there before, maybe that previously undiscovered or unacknowledged sense of justice. He wanted to stop his brother, of course, but it was different this time, somehow. Now he also wanted to stop what Vergil was trying to do because Vergil was his brother, but also _despite_ the fact that Vergil was his brother. It was all very confusing, and he simultaneously _did_ and _didn't_ understand where he stood anymore.

Maybe it was for that reason, or maybe because he wanted to think that Vergil could change for the better as well, that he reached out and tried to catch his twin's hand as he plummeted into Hell. It had failed, of course, and had left him with a bloody hand, sliced glove, and disappointment. There he learned the great downside of responsibility:

It _hurt_.

* * *

He found her in a clearing of buildings and debris, staring up at the sky. The sun had risen under that thick cloud cover, but it was hard to tell—in his mind, the night hadn't really ended because the light hadn't returned. But it was over, wasn't it? He had stopped Vergil, and from the bloody, bullet-ridden corpse on the top of the tower, it looked like Lady had gotten the satisfaction of finishing off her father. What they had set out to do was officially _done_.

He didn't want to admit it, but he was a bit disappointed.

Lady was so lost in thought that it took her a moment to realize that she wasn't alone. She turned instinctively, landing in battle stance with her hands right next to her guns, but relaxed once she saw who was coming. Well, she trusted him by this point—he hoped.

Dante exhaled roughly as he walked towards her, Kalina Ann slung over his shoulder. Smiling at her, he commented: "What an ordeal." It was the understatement of the century, but he felt like he had needed something lighthearted and familiar to say first before he asked her the question that he _really_ wanted to ask. Pal around a bit. Like old friends.

She watched him as he walked closer, still without being stiff or uncomfortable. In the faint daylight, Lady looked a little less young and vulnerable, though he still guessed that she was sixteen. Seventeen _tops_. The world-weariness of her expression didn't quite mask the young, almost peaceful face underneath, and for that he was a little grateful. It was the combination of so many contrasting elements that made her such an appealing person, just like her mismatched eyes. She was all the best and worst of a human woman and a human girl, and Dante wouldn't want her any other way.

"You're still here," he finally said, coming to a stop right in front of her. Thankfully, his light tone hadn't betrayed the need to know the answer to that question. He didn't want to come right out and ask it, but he wanted to know _why_ she was still there, when he honestly hadn't expected her to wait for him. A list of reasons was running through his head, going from most positive—_I wanted to make sure you're okay; hey, let's hang out_—to most negative—_I'll fucking kill you demon son of a bitch_.

...although in hindsight, it made sense that she would wait for him, seeing as he still had _her_ _missile launcher_ and all. _Idiot_. She was staring at him, face peacefully unreadable. He glanced at Kalina Ann, then back at her.

"I need that back," Lady said after a moment. Her tone was borderline playful, but she was still impossibly still. Talk about physical economy. What was she thinking?

Dante instinctively swung Kalina Ann from his shoulder and held it out for Lady. She finally moved, reaching her hands out, but just as her fingers began to curl around the missile launcher to retrieve it, Dante pulled it back, holding it just out of her reach. "No late charges, I hope?" he teased. To be honest, he wasn't sure why he had just done it, but hoped that she wouldn't get angry.

To his surprise, she didn't. "Hmm..." she hummed, cocking her head slightly. Her expression was soft, and if he hadn't known any better he would have said _open_. Only it took a _lot_ to get this girl to open up, and a little bit of flirtation wouldn't do it. "I'll think about it," she finished, reaching her hand out to get Kalina Ann back.

This time, Dante obliged, returning it to Lady without any resistance. He watched her as she immediately swung it back into her shoulder. A silent sigh escaped her lips, and she smiled slightly under the familiar weight of the heavy weapon. He recognized that feeling, the comfort of knowing having your preferred weapon returned to you after even the slightest absence. When he and Vergil had switched weapons temporarily, he had—

Vergil. Stupid _lost_ son of a bitch.

Dante looked up at the sky and stepped forward for no particular reason, looking up at some unimportant dot of the cloudy sky. There were layers of clouds, he noticed: dark, thick ones high up, covering most of the sky, only now starting to break to reveal the risen sun; and wispy gray ones passing by in the wind, hanging lower, maybe smoke and dust from burning debris somewhere else in the city. Or maybe they were just low-hanging rain clouds threatening to drizzle. He wasn't sure, but continued to watch them pass by anyway, wondering what they meant or what Vergil would think or if this was what Lady had been staring at earlier when he had surprised her...

Or, more importantly, what the future held, now.

He heard and sensed her approach him. She was looking up too. "We should be fine for now," he said, pensively, exhaling deeply, "but I'm sure they'll be back soon. Very soon." It would have been too easy if all of the demons had decided to call it quits so quickly, not with the hordes of demons likely already traipsing around the Human World and the weakened barrier to the Demon World. Maybe he just wanted to continue fighting, alongside her if she wasn't opposed, or maybe he just wanted some hope that Vergil could come back too.

It was right then that his eyes began water and, try as he did to hold it back, one tear slid down his cheek. _Shit_. She hadn't noticed, had she?

"Are you crying?"

Of _course_ she had.

"It's only the rain," Dante answered dismissively, turning away so she couldn't see his face. The last thing he wanted to do was show that he was weak, not when he had lasted the rest of the night with a brave face. He _never_ cried—hadn't since he had been a kid. Why _then_, of all times and places, did he give way to his emotions?

"The rain already stopped," Lady pointed out after a moment, voice soft.

He felt her eyes against the back of his head and neck, boring deep, inquisitive holes. What did she expect him to do, open up? He had opened up enough already that night to her in the library, and _she_ certainly wouldn't have answered any other questions if he had tried to ask them. This was beyond his comfort zone, which felt a little screwy around her in the first place, but he always held to his "no emotional bullshit" policy, no matter what. Or, at least, he tried. Sometimes it was harder than others.

"Devils never cry," he said after a long, heavy pause. It had been something that Vergil had said to him when he was younger and had cried over ... fuck, he couldn't even remember. It might have been a contest, or a dead animal, or something. The original context didn't even matter anymore because Dante had said it so many times in the past decade in attempt to quell his own emotions. And it had always helped. His demon side was incompatible with his secretly-a-big-Softie human side, and despite hating that demon side he also relied on it to keep him stable, because the demon in him wasn't allowed to cry. It was what it was.

He kept his back to Lady, because there was something so damn _unnerving_ about her that he almost couldn't stand it. In a good way. Why on Earth should she be able to affect him like that? He worried that if he looked at her directly in that moment, that he might have opened up and cried to her, holding her without wanting to let go. Maybe one of her hands would snake up his back and neck, into his hair, fingers combing through the strands. It wouldn't matter that they were both covered in blood and dirt and grime and probably smelled like sweat and gunpowder, because in that moment he would trust her, and maybe, secretly, she would trust him back.

The fact that that scenario didn't sound so bad was what scared him the most.

"I see," Lady said pensively, shifting her weight. "Maybe somewhere out there even a _devil_ may cry when he loses a loved one. Don't you think?"

Dante glanced back at her out of the corner of his eye and found her staring back with a soft smile. Her words ... had been a little bit corny. Endearingly corny, and maybe a little bit catchy, too. "Maybe," he answered, because her words had also been right. And more importantly, he felt as if she were accepting him for what he was. She was trying to _comfort_ him.

He hadn't even _thought_ about what _she_ must have been going through. Just as he had been fighting Vergil, she had faced down Arkham and shot him down. Revenge for her mother and lost childhood. Finally. Only if he knew anything from his own state of mind, she was going crazy as well, guilty despite the knowledge that what she had done was ultimately for the best. It didn't matter, because the blood was still on her hands and blouse and legs and face, and not even time would wash it away. It would linger, like the fresh tear in his glove.

Maybe he was the only one who understood her, just as he wondered if she would be the only one to understand him. He knew he ought to tell her, but something in the corner caught his eye.

"By the way..." she added coyly, and suddenly her gun was next to his ear, firing three shots at the Prides that he had just been watching leap towards them. Each shot hit, reducing the demons to dust in mid-air. "Looks like," she continued as other demons appeared around them in a ring, "we're gonna be busy for a while."

Dante couldn't help but smile as he heard her other gun cock, and realized that they were standing back to back in a ring of demons. Oh, _this_ was going to be fun. He took a few steps forward, circling slightly and exclaiming: "Well bring it on!" She followed his every step, he noted with pleasure, always having his back as he did his usual boastful taunt. Maybe it was just a strategy—she couldn't fight all of them at once, so she needed to make sure that her only other ally was safe—but he wanted to convince himself that she was _actually_ looking out for him, just has he had been looking out for her.

After completing a half-circle, he slowed to a stop. "I love this..." He raised his arms confidently, as if to embrace the upcoming battle. "This is what I live for!" He stepped forward, brushing his long coat behind him, and then pulled out his guns, twirling them elegantly.

He turned back towards the center, towards where she was standing, guns akimbo, back to him but head turned to watch him, eyes wild with similar bloodlust, all the heaviness of their previous conversation gone. Now, their grief didn't matter: it was just the two of them, and a shit ton of demons to kill.

Maybe it was a taunt, or maybe he was putting on a show to impress her, but he grinned and added, face twisting into a grin: "And I'm absolutely crazy about it!"

* * *

There had been bullets and dust and blood. Fighting near each other, in tandem, relying on the other, taking out demons left and right, occasional satisfied laughs at a particularly gruesome kill, and shared looks through hordes of demons.

And suddenly it was over.

"Lady," Dante called out, sheathing Rebellion against his back as the Lust he had been fighting turned to dust.

She was on the other side of the clearing, on top of an overturned bus, shooting down one last Pride with her back to Dante. When the Pride fell, she put her gun back in its holster and readjusted Kalina Ann on her back. It was only then that she turned to face him.

"I kept count," Dante called out, walking up to her.

"And?" Lady asked neutrally, unmoving from her perch.

"Hundred and forty. Give or take." He smirked, coming to a stop in the center of the clearing. "We kicked a lot of ass," he added offhandedly.

Her expression was impassive. It was weird given the fact that they had just been fighting mirthfully together, even _smiling_ at each other. Where had the light-heartedness gone? Or even that little bit of compassion she had shown earlier? He wanted to reach out and touch her, and make sure that she was really okay underneath that blasé face of hers. He was convinced that she was hurting—she must have been, it wouldn't make any sense if she weren't—and yet she hadn't shown him a single sign of weakness since their talk in the library. She seemed so unconcerned that it was ... well, concerning. He figured. Sort of. He wasn't sure why.

Dante's face remained nonchalant as well, but his insides were churning with a kind of boyish awkwardness that he thought he had dropped a few years back when he had lost his virginity. Honestly, he wasn't really one to care about some girl, but for the first time in a while he felt himself care about someone. About _her_. Because she was _Lady_, not just some girl. No human should ever see what she had seen, and that's what made her different than the rest. More important.

There were so many things that he needed to figure out at this point: why she had gone back to being cold with him, if she was okay, if _he_ was okay, why everything about her was so beautiful and fascinating—also, apparently, why the inner _sap_ that he had worked so hard to repress was coming out to play. But Lady looked like she wanted to move, and if he didn't say something—

"I should go," Lady said.

—she would leave. Right. "You look tired," Dante pointed out, quickly in order to stop her, before realizing that he wasn't sure what was supposed to come next.

Lady looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "And?" she asked after a moment.

"Well, you can always rest up at my place for a few hours before you head back home," Dante offered, trying to keep the desperate tone out of his voice. "Actually, my place is a bit messed up from the attack, but I know a few other places—"

"No," she answered plainly. "Thanks for the offer, but no. I should just ... go back home."

"Where is home, anyway?" Dante asked. Was it a cross-town bus trip or a four-hour drive? She didn't look like she could travel too far without hurting herself, particularly with that nasty stab wound on the back of her leg.

"Far, but not too far. Shouldn't take more than a day." She frowned in annoyed contemplation. "Don't know how I'm going to make it back without my motorcycle—"

Oh, _whoops_. He wasn't going to tell her that it was _his_ fault. "I can—" Dante started.

"—but I'll find a way," Lady interrupted, a glare settling over her features. _Back off_, it said. Dante retreated, but only momentarily. "It's fine. It won't be easy, but the demons didn't destroy _everything_. I'll find a way."

"You sure?" Dante insisted. "I mean, if you want to head back now, fine, but I'm not going to let you go if you're gonna pass out on the road somewhere from blood loss or something."

"Thanks for the concern, but I'll be fine, thanks," Lady said, a small smile settling over her features. She was suddenly warm, and Dante wondered what he had said that had brought on such a change, and how she stayed sane when she switched back and forth between moods as quickly as she did. "I'd be a crappy demon hunter if I didn't have stamina."

Ordinarily he would have pulled up a joke or two from his myriad of stamina-related jokes, but he was more surprised by her statement and decided to pry for information. "You're going to keep on doing this?" he asked in disbelief.

"What, you think it's over now that my father is dead?" she asked, voice hard again. She was detached, unflinching at her own reference to her father; either she had come to terms with it really quickly, or she was suppressing it. He guessed the latter. "I still have my mission. I'm going to make sure that every last demon is dead." She folded her arms. "As long as they're around, monsters like my father will continue to side with them, and I can't let that happen."

Bold mission; sounded familiar. Dante sighed loudly. "Well, I don't think you can take me now, seeing how tired you are. Why don't you just save me for last? I'd like a few more years, at least." He grinned. "Tell you what: I'll help you out, and when we're done, you can shoot me until I'm dead. It might take a while, but you have a lot of bullets, don't you? I..." He trailed off when he saw the contorted look on her face, as if she was holding something back. "What? What's wrong?"

Lady looked a bit like she had just been caught. "No, it's just..." She smiled wryly. "How about we just cross that bridge when we get to it. Who knows? Maybe your human side can convince me not to kill you in the meantime."

Dante grinned leeringly and stepped closer to her. "I know a few ways to convince you, if you're interes—"

She had her gun pressed against the bridge of his nose in a flash. "The _reverse_ also applies."

Had he honestly thought that would work? Thinking with his libido hadn't done much good for him in the rest of his interactions with her, so why would it start now? She had turned her head away from him. That wasn't going to change. At least, so long as she viewed him as a demon.

But if he could convince her otherwise...

Dante raised his hands in surrender, backing off. "Right. We'll do it your way."

"Good," Lady said, putting her gun back. "Glad we can agree."

The conversation lulled and they stood, staring at one another. Dante was figuring out ways to make her stay; Lady was probably figuring out the best way to say goodbye. It was an awkward stalemate, with neither able to speak despite their intense individual needs to do just that. Despite the fact that the pause in the conversation hadn't been long at all, time ticked by slowly and painfully. Reality, to Dante, suddenly felt all too real.

"Sure I can't convince you to stay for a while, at least?" Dante asked, hoping genuineness would win her over. "You're tired."

Lady frowned. "I'm fi—"

"I'm just saying that because I'm pretty tired too, so you must be beat." He smirked, taking a couple small steps closer to her. "Trust me, it takes a lot for me to admit that."

Lady smiled softly. "I'll be fine." She didn't so much as flinch as Dante stopped a foot in front of her, or when he placed his hand on her slim shoulder squeezing gently. Her bubble of personal space was constantly growing and shrinking—he never knew what was too close and when. She was bound to push him away again, for reasons that she wouldn't elaborate on. He could guess a few of the words that were running through her mind: _demon_, _trust_, _help_, _us_, _can't_.

"Okay," Dante finally said, squeezing her shoulder lightly. "Just don't say I never tried to do something nice for you." He had done much more than that, obviously, but whether or not she would admit that was a mystery.

"Don't worry," Lady assured, tilting her head to the side and looking up at him, eyebrows arched. "I've already counted that time you caught me when the floor broke out from under me."

Never mind catching her when she fell off of the Tower, or protecting her from Vergil, or roughing up her father so that she could finish the job off without much effort..."What, the other times I helped your ass didn't count?" he asked, maybe a little more harshly than he had intended. Okay, definitely a little more harshly than he had intended. He winced inwardly, hoping that she hadn't taken offense.

Lady's face suddenly grew more serious, her shoulder tensing under his grip. He didn't let go, though, nor did he step away. "Do you want my respect or not?" she asked coolly.

Dante considered the question. There might not have been any subtext, but he had sensed an alternate meaning to her words, another question that she had been looking for the answer to. "Yeah, I do, actually," he answered after a moment. His other hand grasped her other shoulder, and he stood there, unmoving, eyes staring straight into hers, hoping to convey something that he didn't have words for. It was something between admiration and frustration, understanding and confusion, attachment and aversion. All of the above. _I all-of-the-above you_.

"Then settle for what you've got right now, before you ruin it," she warned, glancing down at his hands then back up at his eyes, her expression stonier than before.

She was pushing him away again.

Dante dropped his hands, letting them fall limply to his sides, and took a few steps back. It was like the library all over again: she had looked so open and accepting, and suddenly she was rejecting him. And he hadn't even tried to kiss her, like last time. He had just wanted her to get a sense of what he was thinking, even though he wasn't so sure himself. Was that really a crime?

He needed to keep the upper hand, though. He put crossed his arms and, as confidently as possible, said: "Then come visit if you're ever in the area again."

"I'll keep it in mind." Lady readjusted Kalina Ann and started walking away from the Tower, climbing over some rubble. "I'll be in touch," she promised, though she didn't look back at him as she said it. She didn't stop, either, when he didn't immediately answer.

When the initial shock wore away and he realized that she would only keep walking farther away from him, he called out: "Are you sure you're—"

"I'm _fine_ Dante," she called back, waving a hand dismissively as she started to disappear behind the debris. It was only once she had disappeared from sight completely and had stood there for almost a minute, waiting for nothing, that he realized that she hadn't even bothered to ask how to find him, or even said goodbye.

He was a recognizable guy so it wasn't like Lady would have any trouble finding him, but still... She had left his life so quickly that Dante wasn't even sure that she had been there in the first place.

There were still more demons to fight. They were hiding in the darkness, waiting to ambush them. There were still more opportunities for them to fight side-by-side, back-to-back, the smell of gunpowder and blood and sweat and _her_. He should run and get her before they got her, or got him. They could defend each other—

No. It wasn't going to happen.

Part of Dante wondered if he would _actually_ see her again. Maybe she wouldn't make it back home, dying on the side of the road due to exhaustion and injuries that she couldn't will to stop aching any longer. Maybe she would get killed by some demons, either on the road home or afterwards, on a job. Maybe she would be okay, and fight demons until old age, or maybe live a long, happy life in a peaceful, demon-free suburb with her completely human husband and children. All options involved her never keeping in touch like she had promised.

As he turned to walk away, back in the direction of his destroyed shop and home, Dante realized that Lady could have provided him with the thing he needed most: someone who understood him. He had been alone for ten years, since his mother and Vergil had left his life, and the thought of having someone who had a better sense of who he really was. She didn't even have to _do_ anything, just _exist_ nearby so that he could reassure himself of the fact that someone in the vicinity understood where he was coming from, what he did for a living and why, and why he spent his days indoors and his nights in bars, drinking and smoking and surrounding himself with cheap women.

Maybe Lady _wouldn't_ understand—Dante hardly even understood himself. But it wasn't his _job_ to understand what any of his thoughts meant. He knew what his job was: fighting demons. It was her job too. And it didn't leave much room for anything else.

He had just hoped that they could have shared it. Whatever _it_ was.

* * *

_End Part I_


	5. II,1: Recurring Events

I'm sorry this took so ridiculously long! I was right in assuming that work would end up _eating my soul_... The good news is that it's almost the end of the quarter, so I don't have as much work to do anymore (or at least it isn't unreasonable like the rest of the quarter was). And next quarter I took on a lighter course load, mainly because I'm under no academic pressure to take as many classes as I usually do, so I think I can take the time to do things that I enjoy, like writing and performing, you know!

Anyway, this is long overdue, but I wanted to thank you so much for your support! I was working on a paper the day after I posted the last chapter, and I kept on tearing myself away from Ovid to read your reviews! They really brightened up that otherwise dull day.

So now, the next chapter. There's no more frame set by the game, so this is all new stuff. It's also kind of long-ish. Once again I apologize for the delay, and I hope to get you another chapter somewhere in the next week and a half. Ideally. I'm about to start finals. Enjoy!

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Two: Decade Nostalgia

_Chapter 1: Recurring Events_

If there's one thing humans knew how to do, it was how to sense when the demonic threat was over and it was safe to come out of hiding. When he killed the demon terrorizing the barn, the farmer who owned the land would creep into the building, wife and three-year-old daughter in tow, and ask if it was safe. When he killed the demon in the apartment building, each tenant would poke their head into the hall to check if the coast was clear—all of them, even the little arthritic old lady clutching her tabby cat. Dante figured that it was compensation: if they couldn't fight off the demons trying to kill them, they should at least know when to hide and when it was safe to come out. And if they didn't, that's what evolution was for.

Dante would deal with multiple demon infestations in his lifetime—big, nasty infestations with cities overrun with demons, buildings destroyed, thousands dead—but none impressed him as much as the first one he had ever taken care of, the one in his own city. Maybe it was because it had been his first and he had done the job flying by the seat of his leather pants, or maybe it simply was because it really _had_ been the most devastating. But the events themselves didn't surprise him as much as the persistence of human endurance in the aftermath.

This was why, the very day he had finished the job in Temen-ni-gru, the SWAT cars and helicopters finally arrived with construction crews in tow, accompanied by multiple rescue vehicles to transport shell-shocked survivors to safety for medical care. The demonic threat hadn't exactly left, nor would it ever once the barrier between the human and demon world had weakened as it had. But humans had probably figured: "Good enough for me," and returned to the city, ready to repair.

When the rescue teams had reached him as he rifled through the fridge in what was left of the shop, they weren't sure what to make of him and promptly aimed their guns at his head. At least, that was the case until he explained that he was a demon hunter, and suddenly he was a hot commodity. His home was one of the first things to be repaired, much to his pleasure.

When his shop was finally finished, Dante went through the arduous task of finding the perfect name. He told himself that this ultimate choice, "Devil May Cry" had nothing to do with the person who coined the phrase in the first place, and everything to do with the demons that would be crying when he got his hands on them. It was just a badass name. Never mind the fact that he imagined her voice saying it along with him when he answered the phone.

The government suppressed the events of the Tower as much as was possible due to the panic that it would have stirred. Naturally some information had leaked out—this wasn't a surprise, given the fact that a huge demonic tower had suddenly sprouted from the ground and demons had killed half of everyone within a three-mile radius—but they controlled it very well. Yes, there was a demonic event in the middle of the city that had started for unknown reasons, but it had been suppressed, all demonic regalia destroyed, and the threat was gone. This was more or less true, but Dante's name never made it into the papers. He was a little government secret, a demonic hit man when he was needed, which at first was very often. The business was surprisingly unglamorous.

Over time, the city grew around him, wood and metal framing sprouting from the ground. The process was surprisingly fast, but still took a lot of time, no matter how many contractors had been hired from around the country to get the job done. Due to the speed at which everything was being constructed, the former poorer neighborhoods were getting a rush job, whereas the buildings in the rich parts of town were built with great care. He imagined that the neighborhoods would look the same—or at least fairly similar—as they had before. The fact that certain things wouldn't change was highly comforting.

By a little over half a year after the rise and collapse of Temen-ni-gru, the city was somewhat back in action, and the need for a demon hunter was still strong. Everyone knew the number for Devil May Cry, though they would never admit they did because it meant that the demonic threat was _real_. The demon clawing at their front door wasn't just something they could ignore or brush off as something else anymore, and they knew to call Dante when that happened.

And if his life was a little lonely, he wouldn't think about the person he had let slip away. He could fill the voids with the empty friendships of the local drunks and skanks, just as he had before.

* * *

Later he would check the calendar. One year, two months, five days. That was how long it took before he heard her ask:

"You live _here_?" Lady's arms were crossed and her nose wrinkled. "It's a _dump_."

Dante was slightly flabbergasted. On other days, he had imagined her arrival, sensed her approaching. He had been wrong every time, but that hadn't stopped him from assuming that she would have shown up in his office, right there and then. And he had always decided how the first conversation would have gone. On some days she was gentle and friendly, striking up a pleasant conversation, telling him how her life had been and asking how his was going. On others she was incensed, leaping into the room with guns drawn, ready for a fight. Sometimes she would tackle him to the ground to kill him. Sometimes she would tackle him to the ground for _other_ reasons. Sometimes her fierce expression would soften and she would laugh, putting away her guns while asking him how he had been. Sometimes she would offer to work with him, be his hunting partner. Sometimes she wouldn't. But none of the visions involved her leaving the shop—or, at least, he had never gotten that far before his mind wandered elsewhere.

But none of his visions had looked like this. Here she looked coolly disdainful, like she was making a house call she didn't want to make. And she looked older too, because something about her face had filled out so that she looked womanlier rather than slightly impish. Her body had filled out a bit too, but he avoided staring. Barely.

"No it's not," he protested, half-heartedly because he was still surprised to see her in front of him, finally, for the first time in who _knows_ how long. He probably should have defended his home a bit more, seeing as it really wasn't all that bad, but he was too busy gaping at her presence. She didn't acknowledge it, thankfully.

"I shouldn't have been surprised anyway," Lady continued, walking further into the room. Her arms were crossed, as if she didn't want to touch anything. "You looked like you could have been a slob when I first met you."

"Not like I was _expecting_ company," Dante explained. Not like he would have cleaned anyway, but if she could think a little more of him, then a white lie wouldn't hurt.

She hummed shortly, nose slightly upturned, stopping right in front of his desk. "Sorry I didn't warn you," she responded, her tone unapologetic.

"You could have sent a postcard or something." Dante crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, relaxing slightly. Now that she was closer, the situation seemed more real. Every detail was still there, from the mismatched eyes to the scars running across her nose and legs. Her hair was a little longer, but just as tousled. "I was starting to wonder what happened to you. You know, vaguely," he added, not wanting it to look like he had been thinking about her or anything. He needed to play it cool. He was a smooth criminal. _All_ the ladies wanted him. _She_ wanted him. That's why she was back: she _wanted_ him.

Something about her stiff stance and annoyed glance told him otherwise.

"I've been busy," Lady explained tersely. "I had affairs to sort through, and now I'm done."

"Affairs?" he asked.

"This area is a spiritual nexus," she continued, blatantly avoiding his question, stepping away from the desk to look around, "because of the presence of Temen-ni-gru. It doesn't matter if the tower crumbled; it still serves as a gateway for lesser demons to cross over into the human world. There are a few others, but this is the strongest." She uncrossed her arms and ran a finger over a window frame, nose wrinkling again as it came back dark and dirty. "There aren't many demons where I was, and any that showed up were coming from here. I figured moving here would be a shrewder business move."

Dante wondered how goofy of a grin he was giving, but he didn't particularly care. Now everything was lining up with his imagined take on their reunion. "Great!" he said lightheartedly, sitting up in his chair. "So you're moving here?"

"Well, I already signed the lease on my new apartment, so it's pretty definite by this point," Lady answered, rubbing the pads of her fingers together to scrape off the dirt.

"Wait, why not live _here_?" Dante offered. "It'll be easier that way."

Lady's mouth opened slightly and her eyes narrowed. She was the picture of annoyed confusion—Dante wondered how she managed to add a scowl to just about everything she did. "Easier for what?"

"The commute?" he answered. He was starting to deflate, but adamantly refused to. There was no need to. She was confused, and happened to scowl a lot. It didn't mean anything. "I have a spare room, so it's no big deal. I can get you set up whenever."

"Why on earth would I want to live _here_?" Lady asked, arms tensing. "And what commute? Who said I would be working with you?"

_Now_ he deflated, but he did a fairly good job of masking it. He puffed his chest back out and crossed his arms. "Why did you come here, then, if you weren't going to?" Dante raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure you didn't just stop by to say hi, so you had to have a reason."

"You're right," she admitted, walking back up to his desk. She pressed her palms against the wooden surface, leaning her weight onto the desk. Dante knew that the action was unintentionally seductive—unintentional because of the angry look on her face, but seductive due to the nice shot of her cleavage that he was getting from this angle. Oh, the virtues of half-buttoned blouses. "I'm just here to set the record straight."

The Lady in front of him was the same, and yet completely different from the one he remembered. There was that same intensity, fierce stare and furrowed eyebrows, the angry pout to her lips. Yet the Lady he had met a year earlier had a gentle side, moments when her face softened and posture relaxed, and a calm smile brightened her lips and eyes. In those moments, he had assumed that he had met the _real_ Lady, the one underneath the hardness and harshness, and while he still held that view, he was beginning to forget that the nice Lady existed.

Likewise, they had parted ways on a somewhat positive note when they had last seen each other, which at least promised aggressive friendliness in the future. Now he saw the aggression, but _not_ the underlying friendliness.

"I work independently," Lady explained, folding her fingers together with her elbows still rested against the table. It looked slightly devious, but she was unfortunately being wholly sincere. "I'm not working with you. Therefore, I don't want you getting in my way. You aren't accompanying me on jobs, you won't 'help' me at all, or interfere in any way because that might jeopardize how much I get paid. Mainly I just want you to stay the hell away from me. I won't be contacting you either. Oh, and I have no interest in spending time with you on the side. I've had my fill of you already."

Dante almost joked that he hadn't _had_ the chance to _fill_ her yet, but opted not to make the joke by virtue of how much his comment could fuck over his chances with her. "So ... basically you want nothing to do with me?" he asked.

"Pretty much," she answered, standing upright again and placing her hands against her hips. "You'll do your thing and I'll do mine."

"And what about the part where we were supposed to work _together_?" Dante stood up, leaning against his desk to get a bit closer to her. From here, her scar was more obviously defined, and the sharp contrast between her two eye colors even clearer. "Remember that part, where we were supposed to work together to take down demons? 'Cause I do."

"I never said that," Lady protested stubbornly, lifting her chin. Her eyes glinted with hostility. "As far as I'm concerned, I'll kill my demons, you'll kill yours, and when we're all done, I'll come right back here and kill _you_."

And that's when she blindsided him, hard, her words piercing the skin and vital organs. Of all the things that Dante had imagined happening, even in the daydream where she lunged at him with a knife, he had never pictures her standing disdainfully in front of his desk, promising to kill him in cold blood at an unspecified time.

The worst part was that he had never seen her looking as attractive as she did when she said it.

"I thought you said you wouldn't kill me," he said dumbly, fighting to stay focused. It was very difficult.

"I never said that," Lady answered. "I said that I'd _deal_ with it when the time came. Were you even listening to what I said, or did you just hear what you wanted to hear?"

Maybe she was right about what she had said—in hindsight, she had never actually said she wouldn't kill him. Maybe he was just imagining things. But the _tone_ of their last conversation, despite having taken an awkward turn, had _implied_ that maybe she wasn't being completely serious. He didn't know. Not anymore, anyway. It had been so long ago.

Still, was it a crime to interpret her words? "That such a bad thing?" Dante asked, trying to be as nonchalant despite the semi-high stakes. If it turned out that it _was_ such a bad thing, then he'd have to go back and reconsider everything she had said in Temen-ni-gru, because he had interpreted just about everything she had said. Even the parts when her intentions were pretty clear.

"Only when you start assuming things," Lady scolded. She shifted her weight. "Just stay out of my way, and everything will turn out fine. Alright?"

He wasn't one to give up, but something told him that he would have to play by her rules if he wanted anything out of her. It wasn't just because of the threat of bullets in his head, but because she was far too stubborn for her own good, and no good would come of him being too defiant. "Alright," he answered. He'd play nice—for now.

Lady frowned slightly, as if a bit confused by his sudden switch. Maybe, underneath it all, she was disappointed that he wasn't trying, fighting hard enough to get her to—

Wait. No. Misinterpretation was what got him into trouble in the first place.

"Alright," she finally said, slowly, standing up straight. "Glad we're on the same page."

"Sure," he agreed.

Her frown deepened and jaw hung a millimeter lower. Either she hadn't figured out that he was doing some reverse psychology, or she was just very, very confused by his obvious attempts to fuck with her head. "Okay then." She nodded. "I'll just be on my way then."

"See you around. No, wait—" he corrected, shaking his head blithely "—I won't. Right. Not bothering you."

Lady's frown held as she turned towards the door, walking briskly out. It wasn't until she opened the door that she finally slowed, lingering in the frame. "Dante," she started, and she definitely hadn't said his name earlier, so this might have been a sign that maybe she was relenting a bit already—but he wouldn't get his hopes up.

"Yeah?" he asked, projecting as much unconcern as he possibly could under the circumstances.

"'Devil May Cry?'" she asked, fingers drumming the doorframe that they gripped. She wasn't turned to him, but the nonexistent eyes in the back of her head were staring at him intently.

"Yeah." Dante grinned, even though she wouldn't see it. "You like it?"

She exhaled brusquely, shoulders twitching—was that a laugh? "Sure, why not," she answered, her voice as unreadable as ever.

Before he could ask for an explanation, she was gone; and before he could truly register what happened, he checked his calendar: one year, two months, and five days.

* * *

To Dante's credit, he didn't _actually_ seek her out. He didn't ask around, or follow her home, or anything. He just let the inevitable take course, because he knew that two demon hunters in one city meant a little bit of work overlap.

Their first encounter was only a week after their conversation in Devil May Cry—three Prides in a warehouse by the river. Either two different people had made calls, or the single caller had been overzealous and hired two demon hunters for a relatively simple job. Whatever the case, it just so happened that they were in the same warehouse hunting down the same demons at the same time. She didn't have the right to complain about that.

"What are_ you_ doing here?" Lady hissed, grudgingly lowering the gun that she had pointed at him when they first bumped into each other. "I _thought_ I told you—"

"I'm here on business," Dante explained, leaning against Rebellion. Sparda sat against the wall in the office, not exactly building dust because he cleaned it whenever he cleaned his other weapons, but even after a year and a half he still didn't feel like using it. It reminded him of too much. "Not gonna lie to you though, you're a sight for sore eyes."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" She ran a hand through her hair despite the fact that it still held a gun. Impressive. "This is _my_ job!"

"I guess it's _our_ job, babe," he answered, grinning widely, "so why don't we work together? We can stand _really_ close together while we fight."

She rolled her eyes and pointed to her left. "I'll go that way, and you'll go that way," she explained, pointing the other way.

"And then we'll meet in the middle?" he proposed.

"And then we'll stay that way," she snapped, quickly storming off in the direction she had designated for herself. "_Don't_ follow me," she added, spinning to eye him warily before turning again to disappear amongst the crates.

"Tight ass," Dante muttered under his breath.

They continued to cross paths like this sporadically, accidentally ending up on the same job, or sometimes jobs that simply crossed paths. Their interactions tended to follow the same basic pattern: she would ask him why he was there, he would tell her that he was on a job, she would complain a bit, and then tell him to stay away from her. Only one of them would bump into the demon or demons in question and finish the job, and the other was forced to go home without any cash. While Dante usually was the one to find the demon and ultimately get the money, the times when he did return to the shop empty handed were, to him, almost as annoying as how much she refused his advances, no matter how friendly. It didn't matter if it was food or drinks or _gun shopping_ or whatever, Lady would always reject him.

If _he_ thought she was being immature, then that was saying something.

It was about three years later, give or take, that they broke the pattern. Lady found the demons, but he was close enough to get in on the action before she made the kill. He found her, back to the wall in the basement of the apartment building, firing fruitlessly at a giant black spider—or, at least, it would have been a spider, if it hadn't been gelatinous. The entire area was covered in ropes of web, and in the corner hung a few cocoons, most of which were shaped like humans, but the freshest of which, which was apart from the rest, looked suspiciously like a web-covered Kalina Ann. Well _that_ was unfortunate.

Lady quickly spotted him approach, glancing at him quickly before turning back to the blobs. "No. Go away. This is _my_ job. You got the last one!" she threatened before jumping onto some crates as the spider charged the spot where she had just been standing.

"I'm pretty sure _you_ got the last one, babe," Dante corrected, crossing his arms coolly.

"Doesn't _matter_," she continued, stopping her gunfire to quickly reload. Clearly the bullets weren't having any effect, but it looked like she was running out of weapons and ideas. At least the spider wasn't moving, instead lingering where Lady had been previously standing.

"Need any help?" he offered, knowing that the better solution likely involved slicing the spider to bits. She would probably reject his offer, knowing her, which at the very least gave him more time to watch the way this demon moved while it was still ignoring him.

"No. Go away," Lady answered tensely, stopping her fire once again to jump away from the charging spider with a cry of frustration. Much to both of their surprise, a slimy tentacle shot out of its body and grabbed her by the ankle, yanking her down to the floor, guns dropping conveniently out of reach. Dante didn't muffle the "ooh" that escaped him, nor the expression of amused pity on his face, not even when she shot him the most scathing glare she could muster.

"Rough day, huh?" Dante asked, chuckling lightly.

"_Fuck you_."

The spider, meanwhile, was following a rope of web towards the cluster of hanging cocoons, dragging Lady along with it.

"Whoever heard of a gelatinous spider with tentacles?" she grunted as she started to crawl towards her guns. The spider, sensing her struggle, sent another tentacle, which wrapped around her other ankle with a squish. Her eyes widened, then shut in utter annoyance. "This is the most idiotic demon I have _ever_ had to fight in my _entire_ _life_." She looked up at him. "Well, other than _you_."

"Ouch," Dante said, wincing lightly.

"Why the hell is it ignoring you, anyway?" she asked.

"Dunno," he answered. "Must be because I'm so charming." That was a lie—he had a few ideas, but wasn't going to share any until he knew for sure. When she growled, he added: "It's not that bad. Look at it from my perspective."

"Yeah? How is this 'not that bad'?" She flipped onto her back so she could peel the tentacles from her ankles. The tentacles split off and grabbed her by the wrists, leaving her effectively trapped. "Oh I am _so_ fucking sick of this," she muttered.

"Girl dressed like a schoolgirl hogtied by tentacles? _Best_ kind of porn."

Lady's mouth dropped and she glared at him in disgust. "You're sick." Her eyes narrowed even more when he started laughing again. "Are you going to help me or what?"

"I thought you didn't _need_ my help." Dante couldn't help but grin at her look of shock, which probably wasn't helping to sway her, but he didn't care. It was just too funny.

"_No_," she insisted. "I _don't_."

"But you just said you did."

"Oh would you _drop_ it?" she shouted. The spider had dragged her over to the cluster of cocoons and looked like it was going to make quick work of her. Lady was once again struggling against her bonds, but it was proving futile.

"Well, I don't think you're in a place to talk right now, Lady," Dante stated, unsheathing Rebellion from his back. "Allow me."

Her eyes widened as he took a step forward. "Wait!" she yelled, and he stopped walking towards her. "If you do _anything_ to help me, I'll..."

He rolled his eyes as she trailed off. "You'll what, hate me forever? I kind of assumed that would be the case."

She didn't answer him, only giving him the same unreadable stare she always gave him when he said something that pierced her defenses. It was in moments like that he knew he was getting to her, not on a superficial level like with any lewd comment that he could ever make, but on a deeper level, when he was right and they both knew it. She was too stubborn to ever admit that he was right, or that he ever _could_ be right. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a demon—to his knowledge, she had seen past his demonic heritage and concluded that he was simply an idiot. But it wasn't idiocy, just irresponsibility. Maybe he was uneducated and a bit crude, but he _was_ knowledgeable and perceptive. She knew that too, but, again, she was way too stubborn to admit that he had any redeeming qualities. Then, he suspected, her avoidance of him wouldn't be justified.

He took her silence as another one of her non-answers, a yes without having to actually say yes, and shifted into a combat stance. Quickly rushing forward, he sliced off the tentacles, causing the spider to rear and hiss in pain. Lady fell back to the floor with an uncomfortable thud, the tentacles hooked around her wrists and ankles releasing her to wriggle uselessly on the floor.

"Hey, nasty!" Dante said confidently, assuming a dramatic stance and twirling his sword—oh, he was _good_. "You don't want to eat her. She's too hot. You'll burn your tongue."

Dante glanced back at Lady, who scoffed, rolling her eyes at his lame joke.

The spider was looking at him now, and if Dante didn't know any better, he'd say that the spider was looking towards but not at him. A quick glance at the spider confirmed one of his suspicions. "Hey, Lady," he called out. "It's blind."

"What? How do you know?" she asked, reloading her gun.

The spider charged him and he leapt out of the way with ease. "Doesn't have eyes," he explained when he landed on the other side of the room. The spider stopped where Dante had been standing and stood, trying to figure out where he went. "It has to hear or sense us to attack us. That's why it wasn't attacking me—you were giving it enough trouble as it was, and since I wasn't doing anything to hurt it, I think it was going to ignore me until I did something, or until it was done with you."

There. And Lady thought he was _stupid_.

"Okay, you want a prize or something?" Lady asked, watching as Dante once again leapt away from the spider.

Yes. "No," he answered. "It's for future reference. Meanwhile, I have this under control." Rather than staying where he had landed, Dante charged the demon and cleanly sliced it in half. The spider split and both halves fell to the floor with a squish, and Dante bowed dramatically.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Lady commented, stepping forward and pulling out a grenade from one of the pockets of her skirt—oh, those grenades. He remembered them. "Look."

Dante looked down at the spider and saw that that the clean slice he had just made was bubbling menacingly: the spider was still alive. "What the _fuck_?"

"Yeah, I said the same thing. But don't worry. _I_ have this under control," Lady said, stopping on the other side of the spider, across from Dante. She was watching the bubbling cut with great interest, looking for _something_—what it was, Dante couldn't tell.

A thin string erupted from one half of the spider's corpse, paralleled by an identical string on the other half. Lady quickly shot the hand holding the grenade between the two so the grenade became congealed in the middle of the goo. The two halves of the spider's body lifted, following the string of goo towards the center, and seconds before the two halves met, Lady pulled the pin of the grenade and withdrew her hand, so that the spider reformed with the active grenade within it. Before the reformed spider could so much as twitch the grenade exploded, sending the thick black goo of its body flying all over the place—including Dante and Lady.

Maybe it had been messy, but Dante had to hand it to Lady's strategy: the spider didn't reform.

"I had cut it in half with Kalina Ann earlier and saw it reform," Lady explained, wiping the black goo off of her face. "I figured destroying the core with a grenade would probably do it, but while I was standing there shocked it grabbed Kalina Ann and wrapped it up in web so I couldn't use it. I didn't want to waste my only grenade blowing it apart, so I figured I could continue shooting at it until I had it stalled enough to go grab Kalina Ann." She shook the goo off of her arms and walked over towards the cocoon of her missile launcher.

"Here I thought you were just having a bad day," Dante joked, wiping himself of the black goo as well.

"I am," she answered bluntly. She turned to face him again, Kalina Ann free from the web. "Now we have to figure out this payment thing, because I'm sure as hell not getting stinted on pay after wasting six rounds and a grenade. Not to mention the dry-cleaning bill..." She crossed her arms in annoyance. "So. Who gets the money, the first person to get to the landlady?"

"Wait, land_lady_?" Dante asked, frowning. "I was hired by some middle-aged business man."

They paused to consider.

"What they don't know won't hurt them," Dante offered.

"But she's seventy—" Lady started, but then stopped, shrugging. "Oh, what the hell. I need the money."

"Great. We're cool then."

"Sure, why not," Lady said, walking past him to access the stairs to get back to the ground floor.

Dante watched her walk away and, for some reason, didn't want _this_ encounter to end on that kind of note. "What's wrong?"

"What?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"You said you were having a bad day. What's wrong?"

Lady scoffed. "None of your business," she answered, and left.

* * *

He found her when he was walking home, that same night, standing on the corner across the street from the entrance to Love Planet, Kalina Ann on the floor, hugging herself and looking up. It didn't take a genius to figure out what ghost of an outline she was imagining, towering over them all.

"It's not the anniversary," he said. It wasn't that he went to this very street corner every year on a specific date, it's that everyone _else_ did. They called it "The Tower Massacre," or T-Night more colloquially, Temen-ni-gru having become the symbol of the evening in lieu of the demonic hordes that had rampaged and destroyed the city. Had it been T-Night, there would have been flowers and mourners everywhere, but the street was deserted. There weren't even any cars.

He actually avoided that corner on T-Night. He imagined she did too.

"It is for me," Lady answered plainly, not looking at him.

Dante could only guess what she was thinking about. "How long has it been?" he asked.

"Six years," she answered. "I wasn't even there. I was at boarding school. They called me to tell me that _she_ was dead and _he_ was missing. He was obviously a suspect in the case, but they couldn't find him." Lady looked at Dante with expressionless eyes. "The man you met on the Tower? He didn't use to look like that. He used to be handsome."

Dante could only take her word for it. He stepped closer, sensing that she wasn't going to push him away this time around, and leaned against the building right next to her.

"I became an emancipated minor," she continued, "and while I legally owned my family's estate I refused to live there. I paid the school extra on top of my normal tuition to let me live there year-round. It took me over a year to find him again, and when I did I dropped out of school and tracked him down. I found out that he and Vergil were trying to raise the Tower, only I didn't know where, so by the time I did find out and came here it was too late to stop them. All I knew was that I wanted that fucker _dead_."

Dante knew exactly how she felt and wanted to tell her, but something warned him against it. Deep down, he knew that she didn't want to hear what he had to say, and he hoped that it was just because she was too wrapped up in her own problems to recognize anyone else's—he couldn't be sure. Instead, he chose to be silently supportive, lifting his hand to place it on her shoulder.

She exhaled, something between a sigh and a laugh, and leaned into his arm. "Six years," she mused.

Dante took it as a sign that he could move closer, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, holding her. She sighed again, leaning into his chest.

"Six years," she repeated. Then she looked up at him and added: "Nothing's changed."

Her gaze and tone was so ambiguous that her words could have meant anything. Was she referring to the demons, the area, her feelings about her parents, her own situation, or the two of them? Maybe it was all of the above.

Still, she stayed pressed against him, not moving her arms to hug him back but not pushing him away either. Lady looked back up at where Temen-ni-gru once stood menacingly, eyes wide with _something_, and breathed. Dante looked up as well, deciding to take advantage of this moment while it still lasted, held her tighter, and reminisced.

How long they ended up standing there he never found out.


	6. II,2: Unforeseen Circumstances

So let's see: I worked on part of this in transit back to school after Thanksgiving and another part when I wanted to take a break from finals, but this is basically the product of my stress-free, post-finals mind. Ah, freedom. Om nom nom.

Another long-ish chapter! Now that it's all me and not based off the game script, I can't seem to _not_ write a lot. Ah well. I'm glad you guys are enjoying it so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy it! Thanks for your continuing support!

Just so you guys know, the end of this chapter actually marks the halfway point of the story. And what an interesting halfway point it is. Keep in mind that this baby is going to continue into _DMC_ and _DMC4_ territory, and eventually past _DMC2_, so everything is deliberate and will work out in terms of the canon. I have a lot in store for Dante and Lady, and I hope you guys enjoy it.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Two: Decade Nostalgia

_Chapter 2: Unforeseen Circumstances_

When Dante turned twenty-five, he applauded himself because he honestly hadn't expected to make it this far. Despite having a miraculous recovery time from just about any injury, he had always assumed that _something_ would have done him in by age twenty-five, whether incantation or magical poison-tipped dagger or trip to Hell. Surprisingly, at least in his opinion, none of that had happened, so he was safe to live for the _next_ twenty-five years—or at least as safe as _he_ would ever be.

He had also always assumed that, on the off chance that he made it past twenty-five, something ridiculously life-changing would occur the next day, so that his life would continue, only differently. But his life trudged onward, and the daily grind of killing demons, eating pizza, and drinking beer _remained_ a daily grind. Even his sporadic run-ins with Lady had lost their appeal. Where they had once been random and, dare he say, sexy, they had become routine. Even her usual offended reaction had become lackadaisical, more of an annoyed eye roll than an expression of indignation. She had gotten used to him in the worst possible way: she _tolerated_ him. But she didn't like him.

Boy did _that_ need to change soon.

He hadn't really expected things to change after the episode on the street corner, but he had _hoped_ they would. She had coughed lightly and asked if he could let go of her. He had immediately obliged, of course, and she had picked Kalina Ann off of the floor before softly saying: "I'll see you on the next mission, then."

Maybe his heart had skipped, but if he pretended it hadn't then life was simpler.

Naturally, she had been just as annoyed to see him on that next mission, showing no glint of the vulnerability she had previously shown. And when he had suggested, _innocently_, that they should work together since they seemed to be a pretty good team, she had scoffed at him.

Scoffed! At _him_! No matter what she thought of him as a person, she at _least_ should have known that he was a fantastic fighter, and therefore a _valuable asset_ as a partner. But no, she was too _stubborn_. She had ripped away the sliver of hope he had held and smashed it to the ground while laughing in his face. He wouldn't lie to himself and say that this didn't hurt at least a bit.

* * *

On this particular evening a few months after his twenty-fifth birthday, it was cold and damp, and Dante didn't the idea of working. Still, a job was a job, and he definitely needed the money—he had done quite a bit of damage on a previous job when he had taken Force Edge out for a spin and needed to pay the owners back. He was glad that he was finally using the sword though, because it made him feel less guilty than it when it was sitting against the wall uselessly. Vergil would have _killed_ him if he had seen that.

The caller, a coarse-sounding middle-aged man who called himself Joe Harrigan, told him to be at the docks around 11:30. Naturally, Dante showed up at 11:45.

"You're late," Harrigan said, his voice humorless. Dante wasn't surprised by the appearance of the short and stocky man, nor by the scowl that twisted his deeply lined face. "You kept us waiting," the man added.

"Us?" Dante asked, his stride not breaking despite his surprise.

"Me, and your partner for this job," Harrigan explained, gesturing to the petite woman who was standing behind him, trying her hardest to remain unnoticed. Not an easy task, considering the fact that she had a missile launcher strapped to her back.

Dante grinned widely. "Well, well. If it isn't my favorite babe in town," he commented, crossing his arms and stopping right next to Lady. "Looks like we're _finally_ working together, whether you like it or not."

"So you already know each other?" Harrigan asked, perplexed.

"Yes," Dante answered, at the same time that Lady said: "No." He shot her a quick, mock-pleading look, and she responded with a sharp glare.

"Hm." Harrigan itched his arm through his shirt and gave the two of them a quick look-over. "Suppose I can skip the introductions and get down to business."

"Yes, _please_," Lady pleaded. "Is it really that bad of a job that you need two of us? Because I can guarantee that I can do any job he can, only faster and with less collateral damage."

"Sorry, Lady." For a second, Dante wasn't sure if the man had said "Lady" or "lady." That must have been the only drawback to his otherwise _perfectly chosen_ name for her. It was kind of hard to hear a capital letter. "It's not that they're big, it's just that there are a lot of them. Don't want to risk it."

"Even better," Lady insisted. "I can—"

"Decision's final," Harrigan said, shaking his head. "The ship's already loaded and I don't want to risk the cargo."

"So what happened, anyway?" Dante asked, shooting a quick look at a dejected Lady. If they were going to do a job together, he ought to try to make himself look good. Organized. This was probably a question that he might have been curious about with any other job, but on a rainy day like this, had this been a solo job he might have skipped the questions and charged in to kill the bastards for the sake of getting back to his warm, pizza-filled shop. But with Lady there he planned on doing this by the books.

"Here's the short version of the story," Harrigan started, scratching that same spot on his arm again. "Freighter came in, we started loadin' it with cargo, and demons slipped in as well. Whole ton of them. We can't get this baby out until you guys clean up the mess."

"No problem," Dante reassured the man confidently. "_We've_ got this taken care of, right Lady?"

To his left, Lady looked uncomfortable. "No one? There was no one else to call instead of him?" she asked Harrigan, still searching for that one last out.

"Well, you two _are_ the only two demon hunters in town," Harrigan explained, slightly taken aback.

"No we're not," Lady quickly answered.

"We're not?" Dante asked. Well, _that_ was news to him.

"We're not," Lady repeated, a small, victorious smile starting to spread on her face. "You can call Alden. I'm sure he's up for a quick job."

"Who's Alden?" Dante asked suspiciously.

"I tried reaching him too," Harrigan answered, shaking his head again. "Dead. Last week. Job gone wrong. You didn't hear?"

"No," Lady answered, and much to Dante's displeasure she seemed genuinely disappointed. "I didn't. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, time is money," Harrigan said, rubbing his hands against his pants as if it were some finalizing action. "I'm not just talkin' yours, but the company what's trying to export their merchandise. Get goin'."

Lady sighed softly then looked up with Dante with an expression of dismay. "Come on, Dante. Let's ... go."

"Yeah, sure," Dante answered a little bit less enthusiastic than he had been earlier.

Lady moved first, gait stiff as she moved towards the entrance to the ship's cargo bay. She was walking faster than he had ever seen anyone walk without breaking into a run, not even bothering to look back to see if Dante was following. Her body language _screamed_: "Let's get this over with."

"Come on, show some enthusiasm!" Harrigan gruffly encouraged from Dante's side, roughly slapping the younger man on the back. "I'm payin' good money, so you'd better do a good job!"

Dante didn't even bother to look at Harrigan and respond, keeping his eyes locked on Lady's retreating form. Exhaling sharply, he walked forward to catch up with her, following her into the maze of colored cargo crates.

"Thanks for waiting," Dante joked when he reached her, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. Maybe it was the rain.

Lady didn't answer. She didn't speak for at least a minute, but it definitely felt like longer. She simply led him farther into the cargo hold of the ship, all business. Dante found himself watching the woman near him more than their surroundings, observing every twitch of her neck muscles and the way her hands clenched when she readjusted Kalina Ann on her shoulder, which she was definitely doing more often than normal.

"You need me to tighten or loosen the straps or something?" Dante offered, finally finding the silence too unbearable to let it continue unchecked.

"What?" Lady asked forcefully, continuing to trudge forward mercilessly. It was a wonder she had even bothered with his question.

"You keep on readjusting Kalina Ann," Dante explained. "Do you need me to fix the straps for you so you don't have to?"

Lady stopped dead in her tracks, causing Dante to almost bump into her. She looked back at him, her eyes wide and a little bit surprised—almost taken aback, but softer. "No thank you," she responded quietly, before facing front again and reassuming her merciless pace.

Apparently acts of kindness made her uncomfortable. Well, he remembered _that_ from about six different occasions in Temen-ni-gru, but those had been life-or-death situations, and had made her pretty angry with him. This time, though, it had been mundane, and maybe that was what bothered her.

Human or not in her eyes, she _still _didn't see him as having any humanity. Or maybe she did, and it bothered her.

"So where are you leading me, anyway?" Dante asked after another minute of listening to their footsteps and watching her shoulder muscles tense.

"The center," Lady said, and Dante knew how it was going to end. "I figured we should just do it the usual way."

Dante shook his head and stopped. She sensed that he wasn't behind her anymore and stopped as well, turning to face him expectantly. "That's not how we should do it and you know that," he explained, crossing his arms. "I'm not just saying this for the hell of it. If there really are as many as he said, then we should stick together and keep each other's back."

"We've both dealt with individual demon masses before," Lady reasoned, "in the Tower and elsewhere. I think we can handle this."

"If I had been that Austin guy, you wouldn't have been saying that," Dante accused.

"_Alden_, like me, is a human, and can't handle himself as well as you. Couldn't," she corrected, shaking her head sorrowfully. "We've both seen things that most people haven't, which is why we're capable of splitting up and taking care of a swarm of lesser demons in a damn _boat_." She shrugged and leaned against one of the boxes, shutting her eyes and tilting her head back. "You're right. If it _had_ been Alden with me right now and not you, I would have stuck by him, but that's because I wouldn't have trusted him to walk out of this _alive_. Apparently I was right. But I know you will. You always do."

Dante was a little honored, but wondered if she was just trying to appease him or genuinely meant it. "That doesn't change the fact that you didn't want to work with me."

"I _don't_," she answered, opening her eyes to look at him. She didn't seem angry—that almost made it worse. At least anger would have been passionate, not detached, as she seemed to be now.

He waited for her to continue her thought, to explain her words. She didn't. She just _stared_ at him.

Dante sighed and looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "How did you know that guy, anyway?"

"Who, Alden?" Lady asked.

"Yeah. Him. The dead guy."

Lady's mouth dropped and she stood, charging forward to yell in his face. "Could you be a bit more _sensitive_?"

"What, were you _close_ or something?" Dante felt himself growing frustrated, although he wasn't entirely sure why he was getting so riled up. "And yes, by 'close,' I want to know if you fucked."

Lady paled and her eyes widened even more, showing the whole rings of teal and red around her irises. "We _didn't_. I _wouldn't_."

"Then how do you know him?" Dante asked accusingly. "I'm sure you did jobs with _him_ without any complaint, right?"

Lady opened her mouth to answer, but quickly shut it when she heard creaking come from a few feet away. She glanced in that direction, and then back at Dante, who grinned in response. They both slowly reached for their weapons, Dante for Ebony and Ivory, and Lady for two of her own guns—including a newer one that he had never seen before. Looks like she had gone shopping.

Lady twitched and fired above Dante's head. There was a cry, a thump, and then the sound of something fading away. He looked up to find a Pride dissolving into dust.

"A Pride, huh?" he asked, his grin widening by a fraction of an inch. "Haven't seen one of those in a while."

"I fought a couple of them a few weeks ago," Lady answered, meeting his grin with one of her own. "Kind of like old times, huh?"

"I was about to say," Dante said, before spinning and firing at a few Prides and a Sloth that were sneaking around the corner.

Harrigan had been right about the demons: they weren't that bad, there were just a _lot_ of them. It kind of reminded Dante of when, after everything that happened in Temen-ni-gru, they had killed over a hundred demons that had swarmed into the clearing of debris they had been standing in. He couldn't remember how many they had killed, which was funny because he never thought he'd forget any detail about that day. He didn't remember _that_, but he did remember the proud, guttural laugh she had let out when she'd blasted a demon to bits with the bayonet of Kalina Ann, and the fierce look in her eyes when she'd looked back at him through the combination of blood and dust.

"Keep up, Dante!" Lady shouted, appearing through the dust of the dissolving demon that she had just killed right in front of him. Apparently he was spacing out—he hadn't even _noticed_ the demon. She squinted and fired past his left shoulder, and he heard a demon cry out behind him. Another shot silenced it. "What's wrong with you, you _hurt_?" she asked, almost harshly. Her eyes were dark and focused on the fight, but if he looked into the blue eye, he could almost see a glint of concern.

He smiled back at her. "Come on, you know it takes more than a couple of Hells to take me down," he answered, firing a similar shot over her right shoulder. They were standing close, about as close as they had been on the street corner two years earlier. He unconsciously looked down at her lips, and then back at her typically unreadable eyes. She looked so—

No. Now was _not_ the time to be thinking about that. Not on a fucking _job_, Dante. Not _then_. Not when she had that much trouble trusting him in the first place, or at the very least was trying to convince him of that.

If she sensed anything, she didn't comment. She spun around so her back was to him and fired at a nearby Gluttony, which he imagined was her way of telling him to get back to work. He complied, not because he was afraid of the scythe that might suddenly become imbedded in his back, but because he was afraid of what might happen to _her_ if he got distracted.

The swarm of lesser Hells eventually died down, and a Vanguard swept out of the shadows to ambush them. Vanguards weren't much of a problem anymore, now that he knew how they tended to fight, but he was more used to fighting them in larger clearings than he was in confined spaces like they were here, between cargo crates. It wasn't like the lesser Hells, where they could just stand next to each other and blast away at them in a circle—Vanguards teleported around like maniacs, so in a maze like this it would just be more difficult to keep track of them.

Lady, who he knew had seen her share of Vanguards as well, shared his frustration when the demon kept on appearing and disappearing, coming out from behind crates and slipping into shadows. She pointed up, which Dante understood as "I'm going to shoot at it from the tops of the crates," before leaping up and out of sight.

Dante saw what she was trying to do, and figured it would be smart for him to join her—that way the Vanguard would be forced to follow them into the more open space above them, and he could jump along the tops of the crates and chase it with Force Edge or Beowulf. That, and he would have more room to attack the Vanguard with hopefully minimal damage to the cargo. What with the debts he already had to pay, he wasn't too keen on getting his pay docked, especially when Lady's could get docked too.

Besides, the Vanguard seemed to be going after Lady now that they were separated, so it seemed smart to follow them both up.

Dante leapt up and hoisted himself onto one of the crates without so much as a grunt. Turning his head, he saw the Vanguard doing its usual appearing-disappearing act around the crate that Lady was standing on. She had apparently given up on just shooting it, and had taken Kalina Ann out to slash at it with her bayonet wherever it appeared. He figured she wasn't going to use the missiles due to the risk of collateral damage, so was limiting herself to using the bayonet alone. Interesting strategy—and it was times like this that Dante was glad he had swords to do that.

"Don't just _stand_ there, do something!" Lady barked, making another slice at the Vanguard.

"It's too close to you, I can't do anything without also getting you!" Dante shouted, pulling Ebony and Ivory out of their holsters again to see if he could make any shots.

The Vanguard appeared behind Lady, its scythe ready to slash down at her. She spun in response, meeting the Vanguard's scythe with Kalina Ann to hold it back. The Vanguard, visibly displeased despite the constant pained look on its monstrous face, continued striking Kalina Ann so that Lady would buckle under the pressure. "Shoot _now_!" Lady ordered.

"You asked for—" Dante started, but his words stopped when another strike of the Vanguard's scythe knocked Lady off balance, sending her toppling off of the crate and onto the floor with a sharp cry.

He wasn't sure what the Vanguard was planning on doing next—whether that was going after Lady or turning its attention to Dante—but it didn't have time to react before Dante leapt at it, Beowulf armed. It took four or five punches and one kick to the stomach to kill the demon, and it looked up, mouth wide, and gave one last ear-splitting screech before exploding into dust.

And that had been the last one.

Dante wordlessly jumped down and found Lady sitting up with her back against one of the crates, massaging her ankle with a deep scowl on her face. "You okay?" he asked instinctively, glad that she wasn't unconscious or anything at the least.

She looked up and shot him a scathing glare. "What does it look like?" She looked back down at her ankle accusingly. "Can't believe I lost my balance."

"Happens," Dante reassured despite his own guilt, taking a step closer to you. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"What? No," Lady answered, lifting her foot to see if she could flex it. She could, but she winced as she did it. "It's twisted." She put her foot down and leaned back against the crate, eyes shut. "Vanguard dead?"

"Yeah," he said, crossing his arms. He was reassured now that he knew that she was okay, but still frustrated that she had gotten hurt in the first place. Maybe he should have tried to shoot the Vanguard. He was a good shot. He would have made it. "Vanguards only come out when the others are dead. Means we're done."

"Good." She propped her hands on the floor and attempted to push herself up. As she shifted her weight forward, she put too much pressure on her ankle, causing her to yelp and fall back down.

Dante winced as well, despite not feeling the pain himself. "Need any—"

"_No_," Lady interrupted, glaring fiercely. Almost immediately, though, her face softened and she looked down at her ankle guiltily. "Yes," she corrected. "I do. If you don't mind."

Dante smiled. "Not at all."

He helped her up then let her lean on him on the way out. She didn't speak, simply hobbling along next to him, face burning in shame. Dante didn't speak either, out of sympathy. If it was possible, then the trip out was more painfully awkward than the trip in.

Harrigan met them out front minutes later, nodding his head in approval. "Thanks," he said, and gave them each a wad of cash. To Lady, who was still favoring her good foot and using Dante for added support, he added: "Told you it was harder than it looked."

"Just the last one," Lady answered, hobbling away from Dante self-consciously. She had figured out how to move without putting much pressure on her ankle, but she still was hurt and, in Dante's opinion, in no position to do _anything_ but sit and rest. Meanwhile, she looked at the money with annoyed confusion. "This doesn't look like all of it."

"It's not," Harrigan explained, itching his arm. "Company won't let me pay until they inspect the merchandise in case anything was destroyed."

"If anything's broken, it wasn't _us_," Lady said, frowning. "We were clean. Demons might have done some damage on their own, but that's not our problem."

"I believe you. And I'll let them know. You should get the rest of your money in a few weeks." He turned to Dante with a concerned look on his face. "You taking her home?"

"_No_," Lady interrupted, looking at Harrigan with bewilderment. When Dante made a noise to protest, she added with a glare: "You're _not_ coming anywhere _near_ where I live."

"You can't get home by yourself," Dante retorted, looking down at her with his arms crossed. "You don't think you can ride your motorcycle in this weather on that ankle, do you?"

Lady looked down, biting her lip, looking like she was about to scream. She then suddenly looked up, sighed, and said: "Fine. But I'm crashing at your place tonight, and then we'll work out getting me back here to my bike in the morning."

"Or when your ankle is better," Dante replied.

"_In the morning_," she repeated, and hobbled away. "Come on. I have to chain up my bike and get my helmet." If she expected him to follow, she didn't wait.

Behind him, Harrigan laughed. "You two are quite the pair," he said, and Dante was sure that he also heard the sound of nails against fabric. "Rough breakup or something?"

Dante looked back at Harrigan, who was definitely scratching his arm absentmindedly. Opting to ignore the other man's question, he asked instead: "Demon scratch your arm?"

"What?" Harrigan answered, stunned. "How did you—"

"You've been itching that thing all night," Dante explained. "You should get it checked out."

Harrigan's eyes widened even more. "Why? Am I going to die, or turn into one of those things, or what?"

Dante laughed shortly. "Nah, it'll just get infected. Have a doctor clean it out and stitch it up. You'll be fine."

Harrigan nodded gratefully, visibly relieved. "Thanks, kid."

Dante shook his head and turned to join Lady up ahead. She was standing next to her bike, which was now chained up to a pole, holding her helmet and tapping her foot impatiently. He pointed forward, trying to say that he was still parked a little bit farther away, and continued walking straight.

"What kept you?" Lady asked when she joined him. She was hobbling along next to him, not grabbing onto his arm for support like she had before, but staying close to him in case she lost balance.

"He got scratched by a demon earlier and wouldn't stop itching it. I told him to get it checked out so that it wouldn't get infected. Don't know where those scythes have been, you know?" he explained, and then gestured to their right. "I'm parked over there."

They reached the bike and, as Dante climbed on, Lady suddenly commented, gaze soft: "That was nice of you."

He smiled but didn't answer, instead patting the seat behind him. To his surprise, she climbed on right behind him, and didn't hesitate to grab onto his waist. He had expected her to put up a fight regarding proxemics, but figured that she knew from her own experience that this was just how it had to be done. But her grip was vice-like, and didn't loosen for the entire ride home.

* * *

"Home sweet home," Dante announced, kicking his front door open and entering the shop.

Lady hobbled in behind him, nose scrunched in disdain. "Be it ever so _humble_," she remarked, stopping in the middle of the room. "Do you ever clean?"

"I told you once and I'll tell you again: it's not like I was expecting company," Dante answered, heading towards the stairs. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

"Something tells me that you wouldn't have cleaned even if you knew I was coming," Lady called after him, staying in place with her arms crossed.

Dante stopped in his tracks on the stairs, feeling trapped, and looked back at her. "...I'd clean," he lied.

Lady merely shook her head and hobbled in the direction of his sofa so she could sit. He took that as a sign that he could continue and made his way upstairs.

It was funny, he thought as he went into his room to grab blankets from a box in his closet, how much she would rather stay at his place than have him come to hers. He supposed it made sense, since she could get her bike back if he was there to drive her there, but it was still odd—as long as he didn't know where she lived, she could say that their lives were separate, even when they saw each other sporadically but frequently. If he didn't know where she lived, he wouldn't be able to seek her out when she didn't want to be found, which, as far as they were concerned, was all of the time.

He returned a minute later with blankets in his arms to find her weapons and paraphernalia next to an otherwise vacant sofa. Hearing the fridge door open, he walked into the kitchen to find her rifling through the fridge. "Ice," she explained when she looked up to see him, revealing a hand that held ice bundled up in paper towels.

Dante nodded. "I got you blankets. Figured you'd rather stay on the couch then in my bed."

"You guessed right," she said, closing the fridge door and hobbling back into the main room with her ice. She sat down on the sofa and stretched herself across with a wince, putting the ice on her ankle.

"You sure you don't want to see a doctor about that?" Dante asked again, handing her the blankets he had brought down.

"Not for a twisted ankle, no." Lady unfolded one of the blankets he had brought her and ran a finger along the stitching in it absently. "For someone who gets injured so often, you sure know nothing about basic first aid."

"Ever notice how quickly I heal, though?" Dante asked dryly, crossing his arms. Obviously she did—_she_ had fired those bullets into his head, after all. "It's always been like that. I never had to worry when I got hurt because it'd get better really quickly."

Lady looked at him with probing eyes. "Must have been hard to explain that to the other kids in the playground," she joked uneasily.

"Didn't have to. Vergil and I were home-schooled."

There was a tense silence. Lady put down the blanket, sensing that she had been asking a lot of questions, perhaps too many. Dante didn't feel particularly uncomfortable bringing up his brother and, indirectly, his mother, but instead was a little stunned that someone was actually asking, and that he was actually answering. Maybe it was because she didn't seem to have any ulterior motives when she talked to him, unlike the girls he still brought home who would ask him questions while running their hands over his back and chest, hoping to solve the great mystery that was Dante. Lady didn't _want_ to solve the mystery, though—if anything, she preferred that it stayed secret. It was oddly refreshing.

"It's late," Lady said, looking back down at the blanket and picking a fuzz off of it, "and I'm tired. I should sleep."

"It's cool," Dante answered, casually backing up towards the stairs. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

"I'll be fine." Lady smiled and, unfolding the other blanket, stretched it over her body. "Night."

"Night," he said, turning to walk away. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, one foot on the first step and his hand on the rail. "Bathroom's—"

"In the back, I see it," she answered, and because he didn't look back at her, he wasn't sure if she was looking at him either.

"Okay." He started climbing the stairs, and for some reason it didn't feel right to say goodnight again.

He fell into bed, a lot more tired than he had thought. He fell asleep a few minutes later, on top of the covers, and if he dreamt he didn't remember anything.

* * *

It took Dante a good five minutes to remember the fact that Lady had slept over when he woke up the next morning, and when he did, he looked at the clock: 10:37—_fuck_, that was late. Well, not late for him, just late for when he had someone over who probably didn't share his penchant for waking up at noon.

He realized that he had fallen asleep in the same thing he had been wearing the night before, but honestly didn't care. He ran downstairs, only to find the couch once again devoid of Lady, but not her belongings. A quick check of the kitchen found her once again in front of the fridge.

She glanced up at him, her hair tousled from sleep, and glared. "You don't have any food," she said, shutting the door and crossing her arms.

He would have apologized, but figured his words would be futile. Still, they needed to speak rather than continue the awkward staring contest. "Ankle okay?"

Lady looked down and lifted her ankle, testing it. "Stiff," she answered. "Wasn't a bad twist. Just needs a bit more ice and compression. I should be fine to bring my bike home today."

"Good." Dante was annoyed by how strained their conversation was. This wasn't the Morning After; she had just spent the night on his couch after hurting herself. Despite knowing almost nothing about each other, they knew things about they other that other people didn't. Why couldn't they just _talk_? "Sorry I woke up so late," he said genuinely, once again hoping to fill the silence with conversation.

Lady smiled lightly. "No, it's fine," she said, leaning back against the fridge. "I just woke up ten minutes ago. I don't like waking up early."

"Really?" Dante smiled as well, surprised. "I took you for a morning person."

"Hell no," she responded, frowning playfully. "If I'm up late working, I'll just sleep in 'til noon. Girl needs her sleep."

"Looks like we have something in common, right?" Dante joked.

Lady smiled in response, but then she suddenly frowned, sighed, and glanced down. "Look."

Dante sensed a Talk.

"We should work together," she said, looking back up at him.

In one sentence, Dante had been completely blindsided. Five years ago, she had rejected his offer with a cold derision, but now she was making that same offer, almost sheepish even though she was staring right at him. Her eyes were clear and honest, and he _knew_ that, despite his initial reaction, she wasn't making fun of him. "We should?" he asked, because it was the only response he could come up with.

"From an economic standpoint, we'd have a pretty good monopoly on the business," she explained. "We could weed out a lot of joke jobs and roll in the heavier stuff. Maybe take a few jobs out of town. We could make good money this way—more than we could apart." She stood up straight and limped over, her gait not as awkward as it had been last night, and extended her hand. "What do you say?"

"So it this just for the money?" Dante asked, not reaching his own hand out to shake it but keeping it tucked with his crossed arms.

"Well ... no, I mean, we fight pretty well together," Lady continued, almost apologetically. "Last night made me remember what it was like to have someone looking out for me, and injury aside it actually worked well."

"I should have just taken the shot," Dante admitted. "I could have gotten him, and you wouldn't—"

"Don't," she interrupted, frowning. "It's not worth it. What's done is done." She looked down, briefly and uncertainly. "I know you _used_ to want to work with me, but if you don't want to..." she started, lowering her hand.

Dante quickly reached out and grabbed it, much to Lady's surprise. "It's a deal," he said, grinning confidently. It hadn't taken much convincing, sure, but this was something he had been looking forward to, and she was finally indulging him. Maybe it had taken years, but it had finally happened. Happy belated birthday indeed.

Lady tightened her grip around Dante's hand, smiling hesitantly but genuinely. Her eyes shone beneath her tousled bangs. "Good," she answered. "I can live with that."


	7. II,3: Pax Romana

Hello everyone! I totally got this out a few days after Christmas, as planned, despite playing _Fable 2_ alllllll of yesterday. :D

Man oh man, so I'm writing this chapter, right? And it's a lot more moment- and vignette-based than the other chapters, so I'm just kind of writing it as I go along, right? And then I get to the end, and I think: "Damn, this is not how I had initially planned the end of this chapter," but I'm totally digging it. Unfortunately, though, I'm not sure if I messed up my lovely structure, because this, more than the other, is the "true" middle of the story. I might have to add an epilogue for pseudo-peace of mind. We'll see!

Thanks for your continued support—you're all so fantastic, and I'm so glad that you guys are reading! I hope you enjoy the chapter!

I don't own _Devil May Cry_. I do, however, finally own a copy of Devil May Cry 4. YES YES YES YES YES

_Educational Note: "Pax Romana," for those who are unfamiliar with Roman history, is a period of relative peace within the Roman Empire, beginning during the reign of Augustus Caesar in about 27 BCE, and lasting until approximately 180 CE. It wasn't without conflict, but there was a minimal use of military force._

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Two: Decade Nostalgia

_Chapter 3: Pax Romana_

"Damn it, Dante, there's nothing but stale pizza in here," Lady shouted from the kitchen, words that were quickly followed by the sound of a fridge door slamming. She stalked back into the main room, staying in the doorway as she held a box of leftover pizza and shot Dante a frustrated glare. "What are we supposed to eat, _that_?"

It occurred to Dante that that there was a problem with their situation. It wasn't that they were spending too much time together, exactly. She still lived in her apartment—and was still loath to disclose its location to him—but worked out of "Devil May Cry" with him. So if she disagreed with his lifestyle, hell, she had a home to go back to.

"What's wrong with that?" Dante asked, looking over the top of the magazine he was reading. "I got it last week."

"Last _week_?" Lady grimaced, turning back into the kitchen. "No. I'm throwing it out."

Nor was it that her presence infringed on his lifestyle in any way. Arguments about pizza aside.

"It's still good," Dante protested, hearing the box ignobly flop into his garbage bin.

"For _you_, maybe," Lady retorted, reappearing in the living room while wiping her hands on her skirt. "I could get _sick_ from that."

It wasn't that they didn't work well together as partners. They actually balanced each other out very well: his fighting style was, admittedly, recklessly confident, where hers was more tactical, suited to someone who couldn't shrug off injuries like he could.

"Well, what are we gonna eat, if you threw out all of my pizza?" Dante asked, putting down the magazine to stare at her directly.

"Looks like we're going to have to go out to get food," Lady replied, crossing her arms and holding her ground.

And they made good money, since, as Lady had pointed out when they first agreed to work together, they monopolized the demon-hunting industry in the area, and at least until someone else showed up they were in control.

"Okay." Dante didn't move either, stubbornly holding his spot despite the fact that he had just agreed to go out to get food. "What are you in the mood for?" he asked sharply.

"Not," Lady slowly said, "pizza."

"What's wrong with pizza?" Dante accused.

"We _always_ eat pizza," Lady explained, her tone harsh. "You _only_ eat pizza."

Nor was it the fact that, Lady was right, they did eat pizza eight out of ten meals. While he happened to enjoy pizza very much and could live off the stuff, Lady clearly didn't seem to share those sentiments. And seeing as they were eating most of their meals together now for work purposes—including breakfast, because breakfast was usually at lunchtime, and tended to also be pizza—she was likely eating a lot more pizza than she would have ever imagined herself eating.

But it wasn't the problem.

"Hey, I don't _just_ eat pizza," Dante said, because while he _did_ eat a lot of pizza, he ate enough other types of food to make "you only eat pizza" an exaggeration.

"A _month_, Dante," Lady insisted. "A _month_, and I haven't much to prove otherwise."

The problem also wasn't that a month was far too long for them to be near each other. If anything, Dante thought that a month wasn't enough. He wasn't sure what Lady felt on that subject, and while he was curious, he wasn't about to ask.

Dante threw his hands up into the air in frustration. "And? It's just _pizza_. It's not gonna kill you."

"Not _you_, maybe," Lady darkly responded. "You and your inhuman eating habits." She shook her head in exasperation. "I don't understand you."

And that wasn't the problem either, because that was _always_ the case. And he barely understood her too.

"This doesn't have to be a big deal," Dante offered.

And there it was: it _did_ always have to be a big deal, because they had far too much fun arguing with each other.

Well, maybe _fun_ wasn't the right word. It was never fun when they argued. And yet, oddly, it was, because the arguments were superficial and just a way to pass the time. Strange hobby.

"It's _not_ a big deal," Lady insisted, though they both knew that was a lie simply because of the nature of their partnership—he wanted to call it a friendship, but he couldn't say it for sure. As long as there was something to be argued about, there would be an argument about it, and which Dante saw as both a good and a bad thing. Good because they were _talking_, at least, rather than sitting in tense silence and taking their awkward frustration out on their poor unsuspecting demon prey, and bad because...

"But I still don't want to eat pizza," she finished.

Because it had occurred to him that, other than for profitable business, she had no real incentives to stay. Did she take pleasure in their arguments as he did? Was she happy talking to him? Was this her way of saying: "Hey, Dante, you're not so bad," or would she have used a more direct approach?

Would this last? Would she _stay_?

"Fine," Dante conceded. "You can choose."

Lady smirked, and what a beautiful, familiar smirk it was. She smirked a lot more than she smiled, and about as much as she frowned. Her smirks had different meanings and implications and moods and uses, and the differences were sometimes so minute that he had trouble distinguishing them from each other, even after a month, or six years, even. And while the smirks could definitely imply anger, they certainly beat real anger, he had finally decided, because the angry smirks were anger with the promise of forgiveness, anger that she ultimately was laughing at, because she found whatever it was he was doing oddly endearing.

And to think, it had only taken a month for him to figure that one out. Or for _her_ to figure that out.

Or had it really been six years?

"Okay," she said, still smirking. "Diner on 5th?"

"You know it," Dante answered, stepping around his desk to head towards the door, adding a smirk of his own to fray, because that was how they communicated amiably. "I could go for a burger and sundae."

* * *

"Lady," Dante started, not looking at her, but instead at the Dullahans that were slowly heading down the hallway in their direction, red cloaks flying behind them as if some nonexistent breeze were blowing through.

"What?" she asked, determined and businesslike, also staring ahead at the demons. They _both_ knew that Dante would ultimately be doing most of the work, since, from experience, Dullahans took more damage from swords. Still, she had insisted that this was her job too, and she wouldn't run and hide just because she only had guns to work it. In her opinion, it was a matter of how she could move through the space without getting injured and weaken the ones that he wasn't attacking. Dante had no choice but to comply.

"There's this married couple," he answered, "and the wife is about to give birth."

Now Lady looked at him—he still looked forward—her eyebrows raised as she asked: "Are you telling a _joke_?"

"Yes. They go to the hospital," Dante continued, watching the Dullahans as they got closer and closer, until he deemed them close enough and rushed forward to start attacking the demons, Lady moving after a second of being stunned. "And the doctor tells them that they have this new machine—" He got behind a Dullahan and slashed. "—that shares the pain between the father and mother of the child, so she wouldn't have to feel as much."

"Right now? Is _not_ the time," Lady said, running towards another Dullahan, ducking past its shield, and firing at the red crystal on its back.

"The husband agrees, and the wife starts giving birth, and they set the machine to 50/50." Dante gave one final slash and the Dullahan exploded with a bright purple flash, the armor falling apart and disappearing. He moved to the next one. "And the husband says: 'Damn, is that 50%? Because I don't feel a thing.'"

She stopped shooting to reload and looked at him incredulously. "Dante—"

"Just wait, it's funny!" he exclaimed, dodging another Dullahan's sword. "So the doctors, thinking about the woman who's giving birth, brings it up to 60/40, and the husband _still_ doesn't feel anything." Slash. Dante exhaled heavily—he was used to talking while fighting, but storytelling was a bit harder. "So they bring it up to 70/30, and again, nothing. So—"

"Just—tell me later, or something," Lady snapped, running to the farthest one to shoot at its back.

"So they crank it up again," he continued, stubbornly, because he was _going_ to tell his joke whether she wanted to hear it or not, "until they're giving him all 100% of the pain, only he still doesn't feel anything. And he's thinking, 'Wow, women sure do bitch about childbirth. I don't feel a thing!'' The next Dullahan exploded and fell apart. Three more to go. "So the wife gives birth, and when they get home—"

"Dante—" Lady started.

"It's the punch line!" Dante protested, taking his frustration out of the next Dullahan's back.

"Oh, _fine_." She stopped shooting to reload. "Make it quick."

Grinning, Dante continued: "So the husband doesn't feel any of the pain, right?"

"Right..." Lady repeated, jamming the new clip into the butt of her handgun.

"They go home, and the mailman's dead on the doorstep."

Lady stopped in her tracks, gun already pointed and ready to fire at the nearest Dullahan's back. Her face was pensive to the point of being blank. "Because," she started, "the mailman is—"

"The real father, yes," he explained, a little annoyed that he had to explain the joke for her to get it. The Dullahan he had been attacking exploded, and Dante silently moved to the next, because Lady _apparently_ didn't _like_ his joke.

A snicker was the last thing he had expected to hear.

No, he thought, mere seconds later, when Lady let go and broke out into a full laugh—_that_ was.

Dante stopped in his tracks; she was on her hands and knees on the floor, laughing at what ultimately was a pretty stupid joke as if it were the funniest thing she had ever heard. Her face was scrunched up in pain, as if it were _hurting_ her to laugh, as if she weren't used to it. But there was the smile, the laugh-lines, the tears gathering in her eyelashes and the hand clutched to her gut.

He couldn't help but say—not to her per se because she certainly wasn't listening, even if she had wanted to—his voice a low, amazed whisper: "I made you _laugh_."

The accompanying feeling of almost breathless satisfaction would have lasted longer, but he very soon felt a sword slice across his back, reality painfully breaking the skin. He stumbled away with a grunt, realizing with slight horror that he had forgotten about the other two Dullahans.

* * *

"I just came in to say that I won't be working tonight," Lady said, absently rearranging the magazines on Dante's desk. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Oh," Dante said, frowning from his chair. "Why?"

She matched his frown with a defensive one of her own, only hers was more frigid than it was confused. "It's none of your business," she answered through her teeth.

Oh, fantastic. _Regression_. Just what they both needed. "Fine," Dante snapped, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet onto his desk. He knocked over a few magazines with his foot so he could draw one closer, but they ultimately fell off of the desk and onto the floor.

Lady scowled deeper, picked one of the magazines off of the floor, and threw it at his face. He read the title as she started storming out of the office: last month's _Guns & Ammo_. Damn, he had already read it.

"Look," Lady started, turning to face him from where she was standing half way across the room. "I have to g—" She trailed off, looking down and clenching her fist. "Today—" she tried again, but when the words failed her, she simply looked back up at Dante with an expression of annoyance and bewilderment.

He simply stared back over the top of his magazine.

"Bye," she finally said, and left.

It took him a week or two, but he eventually figured out that she had gone to mourn her mother's death in private, not on the street corner like she had a few years earlier, but somewhere else. He was pretty sure she knew he had figured it out and was grateful that he hadn't asked to elaborate.

* * *

"So you like beer," Dante started.

"_Some_ beers," Lady interrupted, taking a sip from the one she was holding, a brand that Dante—surprisingly—had never heard of but she _swore_ by.

"And you like gin and tequila, and whisky depending on your mood," he continued, pausing to take a swig from his own beer, a brand that Lady had said tasted like, verbatim, "watered down horse piss." When he asked to elaborate, she threatened to throw her boot at his face. "You like rum occasionally—"

"Spiced, and dark when I'm mixing," she explained. "None of that flavored rum shit. And vodka tastes like rubbing alcohol, so I don't touch it." She drank what little was left of her beer and placed it on the floor next to the couch. "I like schnapps, I haven't had much brandy, have done the Sambuca and coffee thing before and didn't mind it, prefer red over white wine, don't like champagne, and that's all I can think of." She smiled, perhaps out of pride for her alcoholic accomplishments. "What about you?"

"Think about it this way," Dante said, swirling the beer around in his bottle. "Does it make me drunk?" He took another sip. "Then I like it."

"Anything?" Lady asked, leaning forward in surprise.

"Name it, I'll tell you if I tried it," Dante challenged.

"Absinthe," Lady immediately said, narrowing her eyes impishly.

"Yes," Dante celebrated the surprised look on Lady's face with another swig from his beer, which was unfortunately almost empty. And to think, it would take _effort_ to go to the fridge to get more.

"Not sure how to top that," Lady admitted, shaking her head. The unasked question that he knew would stay unasked was in regards to how he had obtained said absinthe. Lucky for her, he was going to answer.

"It's not illegal anymore," Dante explained. "A couple of brands are imported into the US, and I think they started distilling it here, so you could have some too, if you felt like it." He grinned. "Besides, there's worse shit than absinthe."

She laughed. "Okay. Then ... Everclear?"

"Sometimes I spike my drinks with Everclear to make them stronger," Dante answered, grinning.

Lady gaped. "How can you drink that? That's basically straight _alcohol_." She rubbed her forehead in awe. "Ninety-something percent ethanol, isn't it?"

"Something like that. Perfect for spiking shit." He finished off his beer, staring at the empty bottle in disdain simply for being empty. Then he stood, reluctantly. "Need anything when I'm up?"

"Another beer, thanks," Lady answered. "_My_ beer, not your piss beer."

Dante grinned and made his way into the kitchen with long, confident strides. He was vaguely aware of Lady watching him, following him with her gaze as he disappeared into the kitchen. He could only imagine her posture and expression as he opened the fridge and reached for two beers: the type he kept stocked in his fridge, and the kind that she had gone out and bought when he had suggested popping open a few beers and taking it easy on this slow night.

"And to think," Lady called out from the main room, "we're finally bonding, and it's over _booze_."

He laughed, shutting the fridge door with his foot. She was right—it had only been over a year of working together before they realized that alcohol was a mutual friend. "That only means something if you're drunk." Peering around the corner, he saw her leaning into the cushions of the sofa without being too slouched in her seat. She was simply relaxed. Comfortable. "I'm not. Are you?"

She scoffed pleasantly, gladly reaching for the beer in his hand. "You'll _know_ when I'm drunk."

Taking his seat again, Dante leered. "Does that mean I have something to look forward to?"

Turned out she had been serious about that boot threat.

* * *

"Dante," Lady warned, in a tone that meant she was really angry, and not just her usual kind of angry. She got angry a lot, even after working with him for—what had it been, over two years by this point? She was a hothead, after all, so he expected it. But this was abnormal anger, white-knuckled, teeth-gritting, wide-eyed anger; the kind that took both of them by surprise even when they knew it was coming.

It didn't help that she was holding a gun.

"What," she continued, "was _that_."

Dante knew that the best way to deal with her anger was just to act normal. Not his normal, cocky-normal, but calm and patient normal, which to be honest wasn't normal for him at all. Even though gunshot wounds healed almost automatically, they still hurt, and it was this variety of angry that made her wave around her gun threateningly.

He never really got angry with her, to his credit, but that was because he knew what he was like when it was angry, and it wasn't pretty. He would likely stalk off to go be angry elsewhere, but she would confront him, which would lead to him towering over her menacingly, using his height and bulk to intimidate her. And as tough as she was, he did have the ability to intimidate her, if only because she knew that it would take a _lot_ to bring him down, where she, like many others, had failed.

She would get over it, if he scared her like that. But she wouldn't trust him. And that would do nothing but encourage any residual beliefs regarding his inhumanity. Honestly, they chatted, they drank, they joked—she had warmed up to him considerably over the past year and a half, and more so if you thought of it as a continuing attempt at friendship that had been going on for the past seven and a half years. Still, he wasn't sure what she really thought underneath it all, because when it came down to things that really mattered she kept mum. They didn't talk about themselves beyond hobbies and interests, and they kept out of each other's personal lives. Maybe Lady knew that he still slept around, but she didn't mention it. He certainly didn't know if she had dated anyone in the past year and a half, or _ever_ come to think of it. Things like that simply never came up in conversation.

So what did she think of him, really? Was he a demon who liked action movies and unhealthy food, or was he finally human? _Fuck_, he didn't know _what_ she thought, or what to think about what she thought, or what she thought he thought she thought, and his mind was spinning in circles so he wasn't going to think about it anymore.

"I was doing my job," Dante answered calmly, having realized that she was waiting for his answer when the barrel of her gun had pressed itself to his chest. "You were getting in the way."

"I am just as good of a demon hunter as _you_," Lady hissed, pressing the barrel a little harder. "Just because you're fucking _immortal_ or something, and it takes me time to recover from wounds, it doesn't mean that you're a better hunter."

Her words stung, surprisingly, because she was right. He wanted to tell her that he _wasn't_ immortal, but it felt a little counter-intuitive when he was trying to placate her. "Look," he started, but she cut him off before he could continue.

"I know what you're about to say," she snapped, moving her gun from his chest to put it back in its holster. "It doesn't matter if I'm just as good as you if I can still get injured." She narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth, a non-verbal threat. "Did you ever consider that I was doing this on my own before we started working together? I'm _perfectly capable_, and I _don't need to be rescued_."

She turned and stalked away, angrily kicking at the can on the pavement before stopping next to the dumpster—the same dumpster that he had shoved her into when the demon, a nasty wolfish thing with venomous fangs, had started to make quick, frenzied movements, dangerous to anyone whether human or demon. She had been safer in the dumpster where she couldn't be hurt, but she wasn't grateful for the rescue. Yet again, _he_ wouldn't have been grateful either.

"This _isn't_ Temen-ni-gru," Lady quietly added, gripping the side of the dumpster, knuckles once again white. Her shoulders, as usual when she was upset, were stiff. "I'm older, stronger ... _smarter_ than I was back then. I didn't know what I was doing—it was the first time I was hunting demons. I didn't know what I was dealing with, but now I do. I..." She trailed off, looked down. "I need you to trust that you don't need to rescue me like you felt you need to rescue me that night. I know you still feel that way, because you wouldn't be pushing me out of the way of berserk demons when you thought the fight was getting too rowdy."

"You're not as strong as you think, Lady," Dante said in earnest. "You're really strong, and really good at this, but you're still—"

"A human. Yes. I _know_," she snapped, glancing back at him with cold eyes. "But you aren't giving me enough credit. It's okay to have my back. Just don't shove me away from the fight because you don't think I can handle it. Believe me, I can."

"You don't know that for sure," Dante warned, crossing his arms. "I'd rather risk your anger than your life."

The conversation lulled, Lady turning her head forward again to not look at him, Dante standing to fidget in place. He noticed, almost with a smile, that there were smears of garbage on her clothes and in her hair, some bits sticking together because of some unknown goop in the trash bags. He felt a little bad for smiling, but it was kind of endearing to see her dirtied like that, even though he had seen it before. He wasn't sure why.

He stepped forward, closer to her, and while she didn't stiffen in response, he could tell that her body was responding to his approach in an attempt to read his actions without looking at him. Once his hand touched her shoulder, however, she stiffened. "You need to trust me," he finally said. "I can sense when things are more dangerous than they look, so trust me when I say you need to hide while I finish it. If that demon had gotten his fangs around me, it wouldn't have healed automatically; I can tell. If he had gotten his fangs around _you_..." He didn't finish the sentence, partially because he didn't need to. The message was clear.

"I needed saving _then_," Lady admitted, glancing back at him again. She didn't look at his face so much as at his chest, or maybe it was his neck—he couldn't tell for sure from this angle. Her face was pink, perhaps from frustration or embarrassment, or simply the brisk night air.

"And sometimes? You still do." Dante immediately regretted those words, particularly when Lady spun to face him, cold, narrow eyes meeting his. Regardless of her anger, though, he still agreed with the sentiment. Maybe hearing it was for her own good. "I'm not taking it back, no matter what you threaten me with."

"And sometimes, you need me to pay for your pizzas—what will you do if I'm not around to do that, hm?" Lady threatened.

"That's why I try to save you, Lady." And he grinned, because that was obviously not what she was going for, but he wasn't going to be manipulated with his love of pizza. Or with his...

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised in what must have been a mix of aggravation and amusement. That was what she seemed to feel most of the time: annoyed amusement. She would be annoyed by his behavior, which she found childish or offensive or something, but simultaneously amused by it. He was the joke that she didn't want to laugh at, because laughing meant that she was on the same level as him. And while she had learned, over time, that this wasn't such a bad thing, she still felt comfortable in her semi-detachment from him. He wasn't sure why.

"What," she asked, "for the pizza?"

Dante remembered that his hand was still on her shoulder, having replaced it at some point after she had turned to face him. He moved it again, this time to Lady's neck, allowing the tips of his fingers to tangle at the bottom of her hairline, almost as if he were massaging the base of her head. "Yeah. Pizza."

Lady looked down uncomfortably, and he withdrew his hand.

"Come on," he said, turning towards the alley to get back to the street. "Let's get paid so we can get some beer."

Lady laughed softly behind him, perhaps despite herself. "You paying?" she asked frankly, and he heard her readjust Kalina Ann before stepping forward to walk alongside him.

"Only if you want to drink horse piss," he answered.

Rather than answer the question, she grabbed on to his arm and gripped it tightly, her tense body belying her soft, even tone: "We're not done talking about this." She looked down. "This is still an issue."

"Yeah," Dante said, and there were missiles strapped to the butterflies in his stomach. "I know."

* * *

"I'm bored," Dante announced, taking his feet off of his desk to sit up straight.

"Okay, what do you want _me_ to do about it?" Lady asked from her usual spot on the couch, where she was cleaning Kalina Ann meticulously. Immediately after speaking, however, she looked at Dante accusingly. "No. Don't answer that question."

"I was just gonna say dinner," Dante said in an attempt to appease her, raising his hands to show that he meant no harm.

"Sounds good." Lady stood, stretched, and then went into the kitchen. "What do you feel like?" she asked, quickly reappearing with a stack of takeout menus. "I grabbed a menu from this new Chinese place on my way over today. They look pretty good. We could order from there."

"No, not takeout," Dante said, shaking his head. Somehow, the idea of takeout, Chinese or pizza or whatever, didn't sound so appealing. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he wondered if Lady would comply. "Let's go somewhere."

"Sure, it's not that far from here—" Lady started, but Dante quickly cut her off again.

"Somewhere _nice_," he corrected. "Let's go somewhere nice."

Lady frowned and crossed her arms in concern. "We couldn't afford someplace nice, even if we wanted to go. Jobs aren't coming in like they used to, we aren't making as much money, they just upped the prices on ammo—"

"You don't want to?" he interrupted, trying not to look crestfallen.

"Never said I didn't, just..." Lady looked away. "Is there a special occasion or something? It's not the third anniversary of our partnership for—"

"Another month, I know." Dante shrugged. "I kind of just wanted to take you a nice place for dinner. My treat."

"I don't understand," Lady said, watching Dante intently as he stood to meet her.

"It doesn't have to be a date or anything," he said, stopping a few feet away from her. "I want to do something different tonight. No reason."

"No reason," Lady repeated. She continued staring at him, wide-eyed, each eye seemingly sending him a different message. The teal one was saying yes; the red one no. "I don't know what to say."

"'Yes,'" Dante offered.

"It's not a date," she confirmed.

"Not unless you want it to be." Honestly, he had assumed that she would feel comfortable enough going somewhere with him for dinner after almost three years of working together. It wasn't a big deal or anything, just dinner. Why couldn't she just say _yes_?

It probably didn't help that he kept on insisting that it could be a date if she wanted it to be, and he would have retracted that last statement if he wasn't so afraid of adding something that could make her say no when she was about to say yes.

She paused in consideration; it must have been five seconds at most, but for Dante they dragged on painfully. "Where did you have in mind?"

He lit up—or at least it felt like he did, he had no idea what kind of image he was projecting after she said that. "There's a nice place on 5th," he said, turning to grab his coat.

"The bistro?" Lady asked, though it didn't sound like she had moved from where she had been standing.

"I guess? It looked nice without being too ritzy, so it won't be too expensive." He put his coat on, shoved his wallet into his pocket, and met her in the middle of the room again. "Don't you need a coat?"

"I ... I don't know." Lady shook her head. "Dante, I don't know if I should."

Dante took another step forward, shoving his hands into his coat pockets casually. "First of all, I'm paying, so you don't have to worry. And before you say anything, I've been saving money recently."

"Why?" she asked, suspicion clear in her voice.

"Because I figured that I'd want to treat you to a nice dinner somewhere at some point. Friends don't do that?"

"_Friends_ split the bill," Lady corrected.

"Well I'm a better friend than the rest." He smiled, hoping that would mollify her. "Come on. It's just dinner."

"Exactly," she answered cryptically.

He immediately racked his mind for any kind of interpretation of that statement. What had she said that sounded or felt similar? _Nothing_, really. It was new, and different, and the idea scared him. Dante had catalogued Lady's reactions, from amusedly angry to angrily amused—which were _different_, with her—in order to know what she was thinking and, sometimes more importantly, how best to respond. He had prided himself on his ability to have a fair sense of what she was thinking, despite having next-to-no clue what she was thinking, but he felt his efforts shatter under the weight of one word, a word that simultaneously defined and shattered all possible definitions of what their fucked-up friendship meant.

_Exactly_.

What the hell did _that_ mean?

"If you don't want to," he started, slowly, hoping that she would interrupt him and cringing inwardly when she didn't, "we don't have to go. We can do something nice for the anniversary, if you're up for it. Just..." Now _he_ was trailing off uncomfortably, and wondering why this woman made him feel so much like a woman himself. "Nothing spur of the moment, I guess."

"Dante..." she breathed, breath continuing to escape her slightly parted lips even when she stopped saying his name. She was flushed with embarrassment, and guilt weighed on her features. She looked ... really beautiful, actually. Not hot—well, yes, still hot,_ always_ hot—like she had been the night they first met, but _actually_ beautiful. He saw that more than anything else, now, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.

Maybe it was because he had needed the time to get to know her, to see the parts of her that one night, however long and arduous, had been able to reveal. In fact, there was still so much of her that he didn't know, but he clung to what he knew, or what he thought he knew, so much so that he was taken completely by surprise when he saw something different. She had so many protections, so many walls that it had taken time to break through what little he had broken through, and he was sure that she was the kind of person that would never, for that reason, become boring. No, she wouldn't, even if the woman underneath didn't end up fitting the pedestal that he was putting her on. And yet, he found that he had no expectations. She was who she was, and he was willing to stick around to find out.

He wouldn't say that she was like good wine that only improves with age. He would instead say that the passage of time was good for her, because it gave people the opportunity to step back and breathe, notice her and who she was, and how she was different from last time, and smile.

Just like he was. He was smiling. And she was looking back at him in confusion, of course, because she was about to reject him and he was smiling at her. Smiling _stupidly_.

Because if he hadn't been waiting for that rejection, he would have finally kissed her.

"I don't have anything to wear," she finally said, her voice suddenly snapping him back to reality. The haze in front of his eyes lifted, and Lady was standing in front of him, as attractive as ever, only tangible. "Is it a problem?"

"No." Dante almost stuttered, but managed to control his voice. "You look fine." Understatement. "You _want_ to go to dinner, then?"

"Yeah, sure," she answered. "Just let me grab my coat."

It occurred to Dante, as he watched her walk to the couch and grab the jacket from where it was draped over the arm, that this dinner with Lady _was_ a date, at least in his mind's eye, because it had become impossible for him to look at her without wanting something to change and grow between them. This had always been the problem, all along: he had always secretly wanted it to, but now he _needed_ it, desperately.

But she was looking back at him, now, her gaze the epitome of threatening friendship, if it had even truly existed before Lady had invented it. She was his friend—but he wasn't allowed to try anything, _or else_.

It was how it was; it was how it would continue to be.

Or, perhaps, he thought as she followed him to the front door, it was just a matter of her getting more comfortable with him. After all, when she had stopped by his shop years ago—it must have been eight years—she had told him that she wanted nothing to do with him, and what were they doing now? They were business partners and about to go to dinner together. Granted, he had assumed that they would be in this place a lot sooner, but he would take what he could get until he reached his goal.

Whatever that meant.

After all, Lady was only human. If he played his cards right, she'd cave eventually. It would take a while—

"After you," Dante said, holding the door open for her. She smiled, and walked outside.

—he would just have to wait.


	8. II,4: Resignation

I'm sorry for the slight delay with this chapter: I had to fly back to school, which naturally meant homework, and time spent avoiding all sense of duty at my friend's house playing Super Mario Galaxy. Work level is better than it was in the Fall, but because I have more free time I've been avoiding the things I need to do, be they academic or fanfiction. I do have another chapter of _Observance_ coming this week, so for those of you who read that, keep your eyes peeled!

Anyway, thank you all for your reviews! I'm glad you liked the style of the previous chapter, which was a bit experimental in the sense that I was trying to establish a sense of gradual change over the course of three years. I guess it worked! This next chapter marks the exciting conclusion of the ten-year post-DMC3 gap. Starting now, expect, _gasp_! Other characters! Seriously, it's been the DxL show for the past seven, considering that it was all happening over 10 years. Ah, well. I'm going to be talking about the first game in this chapter too, so hopefully my Dante makes sense. Why have you made continuity between games so _difficult_, Capcom? Why?

Can we just assume that I don't own _Devil May Cry_? If I did, this would theoretically be canon, wouldn't it? But it's not. It's fanfiction. Le sigh.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Two: Decade Nostalgia

_Chapter 4: Resignation_

First there was black. Then there was white, _searing white_, and constant pounding at his head as he turned over and groaned loudly and ignored the lurching of his stomach.

That usually meant he was hung over.

Dante had discovered the limits of his own healing abilities when he was twelve or thirteen years old, which was when he had chugged a bottle of vodka just for the hell of it. He had simply assumed that his demonic blood would allow him to drink as much as possible and never get drunk—and boy was he wrong. He was puking ten minutes later, and continued to puke up bile until he passed out. When he woke up the next morning with what, to date, was still the worst hangover he ever had, he realized that his healing did absolutely nothing for alcohol in the bloodstream, so he could, in fact, still get wasted. It did take him less time to sober up, and likewise less time to get over a hangover, but he still went through the stages and they were as intense as they would be for anyone else of his height and build.

Granted, he hadn't gotten smashed in a while. While he was definitely a heavy drinker, it was a result of how long it took him to feel the effects of alcohol—so long as he wasn't chugging straight spirits, and even then he was still a bit of a tank. On the whole, he actually had enough self-control to not get drunk to the point of blacking out, and hadn't since his early twenties. He enjoyed conscious drunkenness, particularly considering the alternative. And he was grateful that he could stop at that point and _still_ have a lot of alcohol.

Lady had, of course, asked him to _prove_ it. She had brought in a huge bottle of Everclear and asked him to drink it to see exactly how much it took for him to actually get drunk. After all, she had pointed out, he had never been aware of how much he actually _had_ to get to that point, so it was worth investigating. And when Dante had asked her why she had chosen _Everclear_ of all things, she had told him that it would be more entertaining for her with something that strong.

"Thanks for the concern," he had told her, grinning anyway. Then he did his first shot of the night.

And that brought him to this morning. At least he had made it to his bed, he realized as he buried his head into his pillow. He usually woke up on the couch after a night of drinking, or worse, sprawled out on his stomach on the floor _next_ to the couch, so it was almost miraculous that he woke up in his actual bed. He guessed that Lady had been kind enough to drunk-sit him, or at the very least drag him upstairs to his bed. That was ... surprisingly generous of her. He would have guessed that she would stare at him with an annoyed look and proclaim: "Do it yourself."

Come to think of it, where _was_ Lady? Glancing up, he saw that it was already nearly 1 PM. He would have expected her to show up by now, harassing him to get out of bed. Well, even if she wasn't there yet, the thought of her kicking him awake was enough to motivate him to get out of bed. Oh, how he would have liked to sleep through this hangover.

Dante dragged himself out of bed with a pained groan, trying to ignore the lurching in his stomach and aching pressure on his head, without much success. It took a second try before he actually managed to get out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. Hanging his head limply over the sink, he splashed some cold water on his face, hoping at least that he could shock his way to attention. No luck—no, wait, he felt a little more alert. Not much, but it would have to do. Maybe a shower would work best? Maybe later. He didn't feel like showering just yet. First he would relax downstairs and try to clear his head before climbing in the shower and falling on his ass.

The sound of his footsteps thundered in his ears as he trudged downstairs, each step sending shockwaves up his body, making his stomach lurch even more. The last few steps to the couch were unbearable, but he made it, sprawling face-first across the worn leather and burying his nose in a pillow that had been left there—the pillow that Lady usually used when she slept on the couch, with the blue pillowcase. Her pillow.

Wait, was she there? He flopped onto his back, avoiding looking at the dizzying ceiling fan to quickly scan the room for her presence. While his vision was certainly a bit blurrier this morning, he could tell that she wasn't in the room, and from the utter silence filling his home, anywhere in the building. He wasn't sure what to think of that.

On any other day, she would be sitting exactly where he was reclined, either chatting with him or sitting in amicable silence as they read magazines or cleaned their weapons, or whatever they were doing to pass time between missions, which to be honest were growing fewer and farther between in the past few months. Come to think of it, they _had_ discussed instituting a more lax work schedule, so that they could spend less time sitting around the office doing nothing and more time doing other things. Maybe that's why she wasn't there yet? She was just taking advantage of the lack of missions to recover from her hangover back at her own apartment? He could only hope that this was the case, and not that she had gotten herself hurt.

After all, she might have driven herself home. Lady was a good driver, but _nobody_ drove well with a few beers in them, let alone Everclear. He couldn't tell if she had slept over or not—the pillowcase smelt like her shampoo, but it always did if she hadn't just replaced it with a clean one—but hoped that she had. She had been drinking, right? Yes, of course, he remembered her doing a few shots with him. She had been laughing at him, laughing at how goofy he was being; and then she was beautiful and pensive, watching him gravely as he spoke, and he couldn't remember what he had been saying for the life of him. It was as if he had been running on autopilot, his mouth running off while his mind sat there appreciating the particular curve of her lips, neck, breasts—it _had_ been a while, he had realized, since he had brought someone home, and all for the sake of winning _her_ over.

Much to his distress, Dante didn't remember anything after that point, browning out right around then. That final thought before the darkness haunted him, drawing him to only one disturbing conclusion: what if he had drunkenly ... well, _tried_ something? Normally, he was more than willing to wait as long as he needed to before trying anything that wasn't strictly platonic, but if his logical side had been out of the running, who knows what he might have tried? Anything, really, and the guilt of actions that he couldn't even _prove_ consumed him.

He shook his head, perhaps a little too violently. It was time for that shower.

* * *

A shower, a nap, and about two-thirds of a pizza later, Dante was sitting at his desk and half-heartedly reading a magazine, definitely over his hangover but no less concerned than he had been earlier. He would have tried to contact Lady—call her cell, if it was even _on_, since she hated using it so much—but his paranoia about the previous night's events told him that contacting her was a bad idea when she was obviously ignoring him.

When she finally did show up, it was about 8:30. To see her walk into the room so impassively while he had been waiting and agonizing for seven and a half hours was more than frustrating, and his agitation quickly turned to anger.

"You're late," Dante pointed out flatly, not even bothering to hide his annoyance.

Lady didn't answer, instead crossing the room to grab a box from the corner—oh yeah, the old microwave he had been meaning to get rid of. He would have asked her what she wanted with it, but he noticed as she bent over that Kalina Ann wasn't on her back, and that she was only carrying one gun, for that matter. That, to him, was more disconcerting than whatever she wanted with the microwave.

She walked back around to the front of his desk, box in hand, and placed it on the floor. She then sat on the box like a makeshift chair, facing him but looking down at some spot on the desk in front of her, eyes blank, head propped against her fingers, slightly hunched over.

She didn't say anything.

"How much did you drink last night?" Dante asked, simultaneously attempting to fill the incredibly uncomfortable silence and discern what was wrong. He regretted being frustrated with her, not when something was obviously concerning her. He wracked his mind for anything that could have been bothering her—but the anniversary of her mother's death had passed a few months earlier, and that of Temen-ni-gru not for a while yet either. He couldn't think of anything, except ... the night before. It must have been the night before. _Him_.

_Fuck_.

"A bit," she answered, eyes still avoiding his. "Enough."

"Did you go home after you brought me upstairs?" he continued, still assuming that she was, in fact, responsible for him winding up in bed. It occurred to him, just then, that if he had done something then, had tried to force himself on her up there—

"No, I slept on the couch," Lady responded unflinchingly, though she still avoided his gaze. "Went home this morning. 10 or something."

"Ah." He wasn't sure how to respond, whether or not he should ask why she had stayed... His mind was a rush of guilty questions, all following the assumption that, yes, it was all his fault, he had done something to hurt her, said something that offended her, _anything_ that was making what otherwise would have been another day at the office so uncomfortable.

They sat in silence until, a good half a minute later, Lady said: "We can't work together anymore."

They couldn't work together anymore.

She was leaving.

She...

"Don't make that face," she added, and Dante realized that he must have spaced out, because she was suddenly looking at him, both eyes matching in the intensity of their disgust. And that hurt the most, more than the words themselves, because she hadn't looked at him with such disgust for years. Arguably, since Temen-ni-gru, nearly ten years earlier.

Still, his blood was beginning to boil, and while deep down he knew that he had something to do with her leaving, it was still her fault for making the decision in the first place. For assuming that, whatever had happened, whatever she was thinking, it was impossible to work through. And he wasn't allowed to be stunned by her decision, upset, even, that he was losing a partner and a friend to something that he could only speculate on...

"I can't be shocked?" he asked accusingly, his anger feeding off of hers.

"No," Lady responded, her voice even despite its venom.

"Why is that?" Dante goaded. "Will you feel bad about leaving if I am?"

"No," she hissed, her back straightening.

"What's wrong, then, huh?" he snapped, suddenly standing. Oh, fuck being calm—he was pissed off, almost betrayed by her leaving when things were going so well. If she wanted to ruin everything, then she could go ahead and do that, but then he wanted to know _why_. "Why are you leaving?"

Lady looked away guiltily. "I just need to get away. Spend some time on my own. That's all."

Dante scoffed derisively. "So you couldn't just take a vacation?"

"It's more _complicated_ than that," she angrily insisted, standing up. "It was a mistake coming here. I knew you wouldn't understand." She shook her head in what seemed to be a cross of frustration and disappointment, and started turning to leave. "Bye, Dante."

No, she couldn't just _leave_; that would be too easy. Lady was a fighter, and kept arguing until she got what she wanted, so giving up like that made no sense. He hated her for leaving, hated her for giving up, hated her for not fighting back.

"So that's it?" Dante accused, and she froze in her tracks. "Just: 'Bye, Dante,' and then you're out the door?" When she didn't answer, he added: "What are you running away from?"

"I'm _not running_!" she argued, turning to face him, aghast.

"You _said_ you needed to get away," Dante pointed out, crossing his arms. "So what are you getting away from?"

Lady growled in frustration. She was fighting again. "It's not what I'm getting away from!" she insisted. "It's..." she trailed off, uncertain of what to say next. "I don't know; it's where I'm _going_!"

"That not what you—"

"Who cares what I _said_!" she interrupted, taking a few angry steps forward. "Would you _shut up_ and listen to me _now_?" Her nostrils were flared, fists tight, eyes focused on his with murderous intent. He could only listen to her. "I just lost sight of myself and I need to figure some shit out! So would you lay the fuck _off_ and let me _leave_?"

That last verbal explosion left her winded and panting. Her shoulders slumped slightly and her fists relaxed, though her eyes didn't lose their ferocious intensity as she stared him down, daring him to challenge her again.

"Where are you going?" Dante asked, as calmly as he could, given the circumstances.

She exhaled roughly, a strange, silent, supercilious laugh. "I don't _know_."

"_Why_ are you going?"

Lady sneered. "I already—"

"No," he interrupted sharply. "I mean, why _now_?" She didn't answer, and he immediately feared for the worst. "It was last night, wasn't it?"

Lady suddenly dropped her gaze. "No," she said, and she was obviously lying.

"What happened last night?" he asked, because there was no need to humiliate her by pointing out her lie when they both knew the truth. More importantly, he needed to know what had happened. "Did I ... do something?"

She looked back up at him, eyes flashing with ... something. Was it suspicion? "We just talked."

Dante felt relief wash over him, soothing the heat of shame that had been rushing through his veins. They _talked_. Talking was nothing—talking was something they did all of the time. Talking was harmless. Talking meant that things were still normal.

Swallowing thickly at his obvious relief, she added, suspiciously: "Why do you think you did something?"

He felt himself panic at her words despite himself, as if she had already figured out what it was he had been worrying about. "No, I—"

"What do you think you did?" she asked again, eyes growing wide and almost nervous. Lady was a woman who seemed to hide all emotions under anger, so to see unadulterated fear on her face for the first time since Temen-ni-gru was alarming, to say the least. "_Dante_!" she exclaimed, her tone begging for him to say something.

He didn't respond. He couldn't. What was he supposed to tell her, that he had reason to believe that he might have tried to take advantage of her? There was no way that he could ever admit that to her. But he wasn't answering, and from the growing look of alarm on her face, he needed to _soon_. "I was drunk," he started, pausing here to find the right words to say. "Can't really remember what happened, and I wanted to make sure that I..." He stopped again; there was _no_ way of finishing that sentence that wouldn't upset her.

"You think you got drunk and tried to..." She trailed off, hands twitching nervously. "Me..."

They were obviously on the same page. She was staring right at him, and he couldn't bear to look away.

"Is that it?" she continued, her fear slowly turning to anger. "And why would you think _that_ Dante? Do you _want_ to? Is that it?"

"Lady—" he started, but she interrupted him.

"God, I fucking _knew_ it!" she exclaimed, her torso curling in on itself self-consciously as she ran shaking fingers through her hair. "I _knew_ that you were flirting, I _knew_ that friendly dinner two months ago was really a ruse to go on a _date_, I just—I..." She shouted, an incomprehensible, untranslatable growl of anger and fear and whatever else was running through her head—betrayal? Had he betrayed her by being attracted to her? Had she _really_ known all along, and chosen to ignore it, deny it for the sake of maintaining the amiable peace that had developed?

"Is that why you want to leave?" Dante asked, voice careful and quiet, guiltily hoping not to upset her any more than he already had.

Lady's face relaxed, then tensed again, scowling lightly. "No," she admitted. "But now I see that it's the right decision."

And the line was drawn. "You know what?" he started, too offended to be gentle, much less guilty. "It took me _years_ to get you to warm up to me, to even want to be my _friend_. _Why_ I did it doesn't even fucking matter, because you fought back anyway!" The words were flowing: he was so suddenly furious, mad at her for holding his feelings against him, that he didn't care what he said and how mad it made her. "You didn't want anything to do with me, and I don't even know why because I always tried to be nice to you. Then we finally _are_ friends, and for fuck's sake, maybe I hoped you'd see in me what I always saw in you, but now you're running away, and you don't even know what you're _missing_." Well, he went there. At this point, he was too pissed to care. "So way to go, Lady. Congratulations. You're making the biggest mistake of your _life_."

"Why, because I refuse to come running into your arms?" Lady asked, ironically taking a few steps closer to him as she spoke. "Is that it? Well _fuck you_, Dante."

He leered. "Maybe if we _did_—"

"Oh, _don't finish that sentence_," she warned. "If you're really that horny, then I'm sure there are plenty of girls at the local bar that are drunk enough to let you fuck them."

"You're the _only_ girl who doesn't throw herself onto me," Dante bragged, crossing his arms confidently. He wasn't sure what he was trying to accomplish at this point, but she had damaged his ego enough in one conversation that he needed to feel as though he had the upper hand.

"Oh, sure, then I'm just a _conquest_," she decided, raising her hands in offense and hitting them against her thighs. He followed the motion of her hands with his eyes then looked back up at her face, where she was glaring back at him, exuding anger and hurt. "Great. Glad to know that this is the only reason why you wanted anything to do with me."

Guilt washed over him again when she so grossly misinterpreted his intentions. Sure, he wanted to spend time with her because he wanted her, but she meant _more_ to him than that. "No," Dante protested, "not true. You're not just some—"

"Then tell me, right now, to my face, that the reason why you're attracted to me has _nothing_ to do with the fact that I didn't let you kiss me ten years ago," Lady interrupted, hands on her hips.

She had a point. Maybe it did have something to do with that moment when she had squirmed and turned away so that he couldn't kiss her, but hadn't it started before then? Hadn't he been drawn to her since she had crashed into the Tower on that motorcycle of hers, shot at him with Kalina Ann, and wordlessly disappeared further into the Tower? Maybe not that soon, but her silence and coldness had a mystique that was only strengthened by her willpower and, of course, her beauty. But to say that he hadn't spent the years getting to know her, finding more and more things and common with her and reasons to be attracted to her really discredited him. "I _care_ about you," he said, skirting around her question to address the core issue, and took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them so that they were only inches apart. She didn't move, instead keeping her unsure eyes locked with his. "You're just so busy pushing me away that you don't realize that we can have something."

Before Lady could so much as open her mouth to respond, Dante leaned in and kissed her. This time, she was taken completely by surprise and didn't have time to move away as he captured her lower lip between his own, tasting the barest traces of coffee. Everything about her, probably despite herself, was soft: her lips, plump against his; the skin of her cheek, smooth against his rough palm; her skirt, silky as he pulled her closer with one arm. Why hadn't he noticed how nice her blouse was? He had long since noticed the embroidery along the collar, but he hadn't noticed that high quality of the material itself. He found himself wondering if the shirt felt nice as it slid against the equally soft skin of her back and stomach, sweet friction between two similarly soft surfaces; and if his calloused fingers running along her back would send shivers down her spine just as the softness of her being was sending shivers down his.

_God_. It was _perfect_.

Only she wasn't moving.

Dante pulled back and looked at Lady. She was staring at him, eyes as wide as they had been before he kissed, but more outraged. Her body was tense in his grip, her skin bristling at the contact with his. She was, to say the least, unpleased.

"Fine," he said, releasing her, and she immediately took a few steps back, her eyes looking on in horror. "That was a mistake."

"Yes. It was," she coldly responded.

She rejected him so easily, as if she really hated him. It seemed as though she would only be satisfied when he was on his knees in front of her, begging for her forgiveness—and while he didn't want to emasculate himself that way, he was starting to believe that, at the very least, he had to be open with her.

Sighing, he said: "Look, Lady." He uncomfortably ran hand through his hair, brushing a few white hairs to the side only for them to fall in his face again. "You're basically the only friend I have at this point," he admitted. "There are a couple of familiar faces at the bar, sure, but ... I mean, you're all I've got." He laughed awkwardly, raising his arms slightly in invitation. "I can't let you go."

She shook her head, quickly and with wide, downcast eyes. "No, I can't. This is what I can't handle. I'm ... I'm sorry, Dante, I have to..." Lady trailed off and stopped before looking up at him, eyes as apologetic as he had ever seen them. Then she turned away.

"I don't understand!" Dante called out after her, struggling not to get angry again for all his frustration. "Is baring my soul not enough or something? I thought women liked that kind of thing!"

She was still walking towards the door when she spoke, so he barely heard her say: "Last night." She stopped in her tracks, right in front of the door, and explained: "That's what you did last night." She laughed half-heartedly. "You told me about your mother, father, brother..."

Was that all? Maybe it was a bit hard to swallow, but ... come on, she was _Lady_. She had her own familial issues. She could listen to his. "And?" he asked her incredulously. "Is _that_ why you're leaving?"

"No." She opened the door. "I'm leaving because you're a demon."

She left before he could even process her answer.

* * *

Dante knew where Lady lived. He had known for several years now, only he hadn't told her that he had found out, much less pointed out that she was getting rusty if he could follow her home without her noticing. Still, he had only done it so that he could know, in case of emergency. Until then, he would sit on the information.

_Now_ was an emergency. Sort of.

He hadn't seen her in two days. After she left, he didn't attempt to contact her in anyway because he felt that she needed to think things through, though subconsciously it was because he wasn't sure what he would say to her in the first place. But now he had a job—_they_ had a job. Big apartment building filled with Blood-Goyles. She _loved_ Blood-Goyles. She would have a hard time resisting with that many Blood-Goyles to shoot down. While he was definitely a bit apprehensive, unsure that he was ready to talk to her, or even _wanted_ to talk to her after such a harsh exit a few days earlier, he wanted to smooth over the cracks sooner as opposed to later; before it was too late.

Pulling up to the building, he realized that he wasn't actually sure which apartment was hers, and figured that he would have to check the buzzers by the front door to find out. She probably wouldn't let him in if he buzzed, but if he tried to get in through one of her windows ... sketchy, but effective. Still, he didn't want to look through every window of the building to find her, because that would be even _sketchier_. But it was a small, narrow building, and he figured that each floor had an apartment, maybe two, so he just needed to know what floor she was on and he would figure it out from there.

Thankfully, the tenants' names were posted next to their corresponding apartment buzzer, so it was all a matter of finding one for Arkham, L. or M., whichever she went by legally. Shit, had she changed her last name? None of the buzzers had Arkham, _anything_ next to them. She must have been going by an alias. That was it. It was just a matter of—

"May I help you?" a voice asked from behind Dante, and he turned to face an old woman in a dusty pink jacket who standing with several bags of groceries in front of the stoop, presumably waiting to get into the building.

"Do you live here?" Dante asked, wondering whether or not he should turn up the charm to get some information out of her.

"I'm the landlady," the woman informed him, and she opened her mouth to say something else, but he interrupted her.

"Great!" he exclaimed, crossing his arms confidently. "My friend lives here, but I can't find which apartment is hers."

The landlady looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Is her name there?" she asked, pointing to the little buzzers and matching labels.

"Well, no," he admitted, "but I think she might be—"

"Then she doesn't live here," the old woman concluded. "Now will you excuse me? I need to get inside."

"No, you don't understand," Dante pressed, because that woman's logic made _no sense_. "She definitely lives here. Her name is Lady—or maybe she's going by Mary, I don't know—but she has short, dark hair, hot, rides a motorcycle—"

"I know who you're talking about," the landlady interrupted. "Figured you'd be looking for _her_." Before Dante could ask what the woman meant by that, exactly, she added: "Moved out."

_That_ made no sense. None. How could she have moved out that quickly? She had just decided to leave two days earlier. Or had she known for a while? He _didn't understand_. "No," he protested. She can't have left that quickly. "She can't have."

"She _did_," the landlady insisted. "Two days ago. Said that business was taking her out of town and she wasn't sure when she'd be coming back. Moved her stuff somewhere, cancelled her lease, and left."

"Did she say where?" Dante asked, almost desperately. "I need to talk to her."

"Gave no information." The woman shook her head. "Sorry, that's all I know. Now can I get into my apartment?"

"Oh." He stepped aside awkwardly, making his way down the three steps of the stoop. "Sure. Sorry."

The woman tottered up the stairs and started fishing for her keys in her purse, muttering something about how people these days didn't offer to help old women with their groceries. He had considered giving her a hand, but in light of her revelation his limbs felt stiff and it hurt to move. He hadn't expected Lady to stick around for a long time, but he had—incorrectly—assumed that, two days after their argument, she would still be in town, finalizing plans and wrapping up her affairs. He hadn't even been sure what coming to see her would truly accomplish, because Lady was far too stubborn for her own good and wouldn't change her mind on a dime once she made a decision—that took time, as he had learned, and that was time that he didn't have. Apparently, time that he never had.

He felt oddly and very abruptly drained, as if these past ten years had suddenly caught up with him and hit him very hard. He knew that, as a half-demon, he would live longer than the average human if his demon-hunting lifestyle didn't catch up with him first, but for a second, that's exactly how he felt: human. He was almost thirty, and the fact weighed down on him as if being thirty suddenly mattered to him. It didn't—he simply checked off days and months and years as a growing high score, and was curious to see when he would finally die. Aging, or whatever it was in his admittedly peculiar case, didn't bring with it a sense of finality, or even much accomplishment. Just ... interest.

And to think, he had spent ten years fruitlessly hoping that Lady would accept him, then like him, then want him, and then maybe, eventually, hopefully, love him. Ten _years_. That was a lot, he realized. That was a pretty long time to try and fail. And his muscles ached, and his stiff joints wanted to pop and crack and buckle, but he still stood strong, because as much as those imaginary pains hurt, they were still imaginary, and he was still half-demon Dante, not growing weaker with time, but stronger. And he would only grow stronger until age finally did catch up with him, whenever that ended up being, at which point he would feel these pains he pretended to feel and actually die.

If some incantation or poison-tipped dagger or trip to Hell didn't catch up with him first.

It seemed as though life moved, for him, in steps of—approximately—ten: ten years of joy, during childhood; ten years of loneliness, during adolescence; ten years of wanting, with Lady. And if he ever felt any nostalgia for them, it was because his life always seemed to be so different when each decade ended. He would go from nurtured to destructive; hopeless to hopeful; and then what? Where did his time with Lady leave him, other than standing on a stoop and wondering if he could have been able to convince her to stay if she had stuck around for only two days longer; wondering if he had been right to waste so much time on a woman who, ultimately, would leave; and asking himself, some higher power, _anyone_, why everyone he cared for ultimately died or ran away? Because, dear God-he-didn't-believe-in, he was completely alone again, and where was the justice in that?

Lady was all that he had, and now she was gone. She could have been—

"Hey!" Dante heard the old woman exclaim, and he looked up at where she was standing, bags of groceries in her arms, door finally open. "Are you just going to loiter around here? I'll call the cops if you do!"

He shook his head, and the movement was fluid and unhindered by stiffness. "I'm leaving," he said, turning and raising his hands in acceptance. "Don't get your panties in a knot."

Behind him, the woman made an offended noise and shut the door, but Dante didn't look back. He wordlessly climbed on his motorcycle, loudly and obnoxiously revved it out of sheer defiance of someone who wasn't there anymore, and drove away.

* * *

It took a few more months before Dante found another distraction.

Trish, as she called herself, had come to warn him about the rise of the King of Hell, Mundus, who had apparently resurrected twenty years earlier. Much to his surprise and suspicion, she was a spitting image of his mother, but the similarities ended there. As he had later learned, Mundus had created her as a lure to get Dante to Mallet Island, manipulating his affection for his real mother, and it was after that that Dante had decided that he could see himself making a move on Trish, if he ever felt like it. She was beautiful, after all, and he could get over the fact that she had his mother's face and see her for the person that she was underneath.

It seemed as though the mission had helped him overcome many of the issues that he had harbored over the years. By fighting and defeating Mundus, he was not only emulating his father, but also avenging his mother. By getting to know Trish, he was coming to terms with his mother's death, and finding a new friend to replace the gaping hole in his life. And while fighting and, ultimately, killing Vergil was certainly painful, he was glad to know that his brother was no longer Mundus' servant, and was hopefully at rest.

And he saved the world. Overall, a job well done.

Still, while his new Attractive Friend Trish certainly filled up a large hole in his life, Dante wasn't sure that she could fill the combat boots of the woman who had previously stood in that place. When Trish had cried, self-consciously hoping to be forgiven for being a demon that stole his mother's appearance, Dante had comforted her in a way that her dark-haired predecessor had seldom allowed him to comfort her: in his arms. And as she had looked up at him, pale eyes glistening with tears, he knew that he _could_ kiss her, and she _would_ kiss back. But he _didn't_ anyway, not because the last time he had tried to steal a kiss in a moment like that had ended so awfully, but for another reason: she wasn't his mother, but she wasn't Lady either.

He comforted her with words instead, promises like: "Devils never cry," and "we humans never give up." He had said it, and then afterwards realized the call-and-response nature of his words with very similar ones uttered ten years earlier:

"Maybe somewhere out there even a _devil_ may cry when he loses a loved one. Don't you think?"

"Devils _never_ cry. These tears ... tears are a gift only _humans_ have."

Trish had liked the sound of it and, later, asked him to change the name of the shop to match her new philosophy; for as long as she could cry, she would be human.

It was a perversion of Lady's sympathy, and yet Dante found himself changing the name of his shop to "Devil Never Cry" regardless. For as long as _he_ could cry, he would be a human too. No matter what _she_ thought.

* * *

_End Part II_


	9. III,1: Feminine Wiles

OH MY GOSH I FAIL SO HARD.

I feel like I've betrayed you all by not updating in like um _forever_. I AM AN AWFUL PERSON. I promised myself I would update again this weekend seeing as I've updated _Observance_ twice, which I probably shouldn't be doing anyway because I have to outline my 10-page research paper and I'm sick as it is... But I love you guys, so I'm doing it anyway. 3 Just so you know, though, I can't promise any more updates until Spring Break since I'm now officially going into finals, so give me a few more weeks and I should have the next chapter out.

I'll try to be a bit better about updating next quarter, but no promises there... Either way we're four chapters (this one included) from the end. All of the Lady stuff that I've been talking about will probably be too long for an epilogue on top of the things I already have planned, so I expect that will be a bonus fic. I wonder why I spend so much time planning chapters when I know that I'll change a lot based on how everything is flowing by that point.

Anyway, this chapter is going to be similar, in a sense, to "Pax Romana" (Part II, Chapter 3) in the sense that it's a series of moments and reactions over time, only with a bit more of a sense of narrative between them. So if you liked the vignette-ness of that chapter, you should like this one, and if you didn't hopefully you'll still enjoy it. ;)

Thank you all for your continued support, I love you all, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Three: Longevity

_Chapter 1: Feminine Wiles_

"I'm leaving, Dante."

Dante looked up from his magazine with a near incredulous look on his face. Honestly, he had kind of seen it coming—Trish had been antsy in recent months—but now that it was out in the open he was a little stunned.

Trish was an interesting woman. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties and probably always would, since Mundus had created her as a full-grown human adult, but she had only been in existence for about three human years, included the two years spent with Dante. Mundus had trained her to fit in with humans on a superficial level, but once Dante got to know her better it became clear that she knew very little about human society—about as much as any demon who had never set foot in the human realm, which wasn't much. As a result, simple things excited her with an almost childlike interest that was born from a sense of perpetual discovery. Trish was, of course, still a very mature if not a bit callous woman both in appearance and in attitude, but every now and then her disinterested mask would slip and she would reveal an appreciation for like that Dante had never seen in anyone else.

Trish was also an oddity as a demon because her devil trigger kept her in her human form, a mystery for another day—because she was about to leave.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Trish added, raising one eyebrow expectantly.

What did she expect him to do, beg her not to leave? Actually, that was probably about right. "I mean, it's your decision," Dante finally answered, putting down his magazine. "Why, though?"

The question seemed to satisfy Trish's ego, so she smirked and sat on the edge of his desk, just like she always did. "I just need to get out of here. It's nothing personal," she insisted, ice blue eyes glinting sincerely, "I just want to go off on my own and do my own thing."

Dante nodded. "Fair enough." Her reasoning didn't surprise him in the least—she was always excited to go on missions to different places. She liked traveling and being on her feet, and seemed to dislike the idle waiting that took place between frequently uninspiring missions. The exciting chases didn't happen as often as they used to and big missions were a rarity, so the fact that Trish wanted to hunt some bigger game was perfectly understandable. "Will you come back?"

"Oh, probably. I'll end up back here at some point. Couldn't tell you when." Trish shrugged lightly and looked down at the phone on his desk, running her fingers over the surface. "I'm not running away. Not like _she_ did."

Dante cast her a sharp look.

"I'm sorry for bringing it up," Trish continued, though her casual tone failed to match the vehemence of an apology, "but I'm just saying."

"It's fine," Dante said, waving her off, but deep down something still managed to sting. He liked to think that Lady was out of his life at this point, having run away so long ago that it felt like she hadn't been there in the first place.

...no, that was a lie. It was an absolute lie. In reality, it had only been a little over two years, and if Lady was out of his life it was thanks, in part, to the amount of time he had spent convincing himself that he didn't need her. And, in fact, he _didn't_ need her. She wasn't good enough for him, if she was going to be such a callous bitch. He was happier without her.

"You sure?" Trish prodded. "Because—"

"_Trish_," Dante abruptly warned; a part of him wondered when he had gotten so forbidding. Trish, thankfully, wasn't one to flinch at him, having been at the receiving end of a pretty violent bout of anger on the day of their first meeting. He didn't let his temper out often, but he did have to admit that he had been doing it a lot more than he had before—maybe his decision, two years earlier to focus on his mission, had made him too serious, made him care too much. Maybe he just needed to chill out a bit more.

He looked back at the blonde demon, still perched on the desk with an expectant look. She certainly wasn't wounded by his little outburst—why would she be?—and was simply waiting for him to cool down and continue the conversation.

"When are you thinking of leaving?" he asked, deciding not to apologize in favor of simply moving on.

"Soon," Trish answered, the conversation resuming its casual pace. "I hear they've been getting some pretty interesting demons down South, and figured I would try to get in on the action."

Dante smirked, first and foremost wondering where Trish got her information. Enzo, perhaps? Shit, he hadn't seen the man in _years_; maybe it was worth inquiring. "Who'd you hear that from?" he asked, and he almost hoped that she would answer Enzo so he could find out how the man was doing. Dante had cockily decided only a few years after the events of Temen-ni-gru that he no longer needed an associate to find him jobs—a decision that he regretted now that jobs were coming in at a trickle. They had tried to maintain some semblance of a friendship, but stopped making the effort to seeing each other after a while and hadn't really spoken since ... since before he had started working with Lady, for sure.

"Man named Morrison—nice guy. Knows his thing," Trish responded. She seemed to notice Dante's face sink a bit at her answer and, perhaps misinterpreting the reason for his reaction, added: "I could tell him to let you know about jobs when he hears about them, if you'd like. Business is slow enough."

"Nah, it's okay," he answered, more out of pride than anything else. He really didn't need Trish to mother him; the resemblance was eerie enough as it was. She _wasn't_ his mother, though, and he was glad that he had made that distinction in his mind. Made things less awkward.

"I'll give him the password," Trish said dismissively. She then got up from her spot on the desk and brushed her hands against her pants. "Anyway, I was thinking I would leave tomorrow morning. Rest up tonight, start driving in the morning." She cocked her head and smiled mischievously. "So are we going to do something fun on my last night in town?"

Dante smirked. "Going-away party at Murphy's?" he asked, thinking about one of her favorite bars in town.

"What, and invite all of our friends?" she deadpanned, arms crossed.

She meant it in good fun, but somehow Dante didn't have the energy to return with a joke of his own. "You know what I mean."

"Right," Trish said, walking towards the door. "By the way, you're treating."

* * *

Dante ended up getting into contact with Morrison, who quickly proved that he was a very capable liaison and source of information. Ironically enough, more jobs started to pop up in the month or two after Trish's departure, but that hadn't been her only reason for leaving and he wasn't about to call her up and tell her to come back—she hadn't left a number.

Morrison spent time with him on occasion, but now that there wasn't a consistent presence in his life to nag him into motivation, Dante was seldom compelled to clean. Sure, he'd throw out the stale pizza when it became sentient and do his laundry when he was out of boxers—or buy new ones—but for the most part he didn't make the effort to keep things clean. He was getting sloppy on missions too, causing more collateral damage than was truly necessary. Fortunately for him, his reputation as the best devil hunter in town kept the clients calling despite the promise of getting all their shit destroyed.

He could do whatever the fuck he wanted when there was nobody there to tell him otherwise. Sure, he was spending more money than he was making and that would eventually bite him in the ass, but he figured he'd keep gambling until he won something and deal with the consequences when they finally caught up with him.

Naturally, she would show her face right about then. And there was no flourish, no announcement, no nothing. Suddenly she was standing on the other side of the desk, staring him down as if she hadn't been gone for nearly three years.

"You owe me money," Lady said, her arms crossed and her nose wrinkled, much as it had been when she first showed up in town, only there was more history behind it.

Dante stared back at Lady with disbelief, which he associated in part with the fact that he had never expected to see her again, much less _wanted_ to. Little details started flooding back towards him, like the particular color of her blue eye—_teal_, and he couldn't believe that he had ever forgotten that—and he resented the images and memories that he had never wanted to remember. A part of him wanted to ask questions, but the other part wanted to push her back out the door and out of his life. She wanted money? Fine: he would pay her, and she would leave.

Oh. Right. He had no money.

"Can't pay you back," he answered, leaning back in his chair and trying to act natural. "Don't have any money." Strangely enough, he found that he didn't feel like asking her where she had been, what she had been up to, despite the nagging curiosity emanating from the dusty corner of his mind he had always reserved for her.

Lady scowled and raised her arms. "Of _course_. I'm gone for three years and everything in your life falls apart. Just ... just _look_ at this place. It's a _sty_." She crossed her arms again and kicked a beer bottle away from her feet. "So what do you need to get the money, more jobs? I'll get you jobs."

"I _have_ a contact," Dante coldly pointed out.

"And now you have _two_," Lady informed him rather stubbornly, and he realized that this trait of hers wasn't as endearing as it was frustrating, which, in his opinion, was a sign of progress. "I'll pass along some of the jobs I don't feel like dealing with and collect the pay in your stead. We'll do that until you've paid me back entirely and then you won't have to see me anymore." She lifted her chin and looked at him through slitted eyes. "Deal?"

"Whatever it takes," he answered, leaning forward a bit to grab a magazine from his desk. "I don't even know _what_ I owe you for, but fine. Whatever you say."

Lady scoffed. "Of _course_ you forgot. It's various expenses that you couldn't make when we were working together, and the only reason I'm collecting is because I'm a little short of cash myself. This isn't me finding some random excuse to come running back to you, if that's what you think," she added, picking a bit of lint off of her white blouse, "so don't get your hopes up. I _hope_ you're over me by this point."

Dante's hands clenched, though he barely heard the sound of the magazine crumpling in his grip as he leaned forward in his chair. "I _am_," he said, sure to look into her beautifully mismatched eyes as he said it to drive the point home.

Lady's face was unperturbed, and she casually responded: "Good," before watching him relax back into his seat, perhaps wondering, like him, why he had just reacted so negatively. "I'll be in touch."

"I'm looking forward to it," he deadpanned, focusing his attention on the magazine in front of him. Oh, damn it, he had already read this one.

She didn't respond; instead, he heard her footsteps as she retreated towards the door. There was a creak as the door opened, and the sounds of the street began flooding into the office. The door didn't close immediately, though, and she suddenly added: "By the way... 'Devil _Never_ Cry?'"

Dante didn't look back up at her, instead rereading the same sentence about the virtues of using a forty-four Magnum instead of a forty-one.

"I don't like it," she concluded, and chuckled softly as she closed the door behind her, the ceiling fan now the only source of noise in the room.

He was mad enough that he wanted to change it back; what was worse was that he knew he would.

* * *

Lady was somehow a constant in his life, even though he could never predict when she would show up next. Over the next couple of years, she would sporadically pop in with various missions for him to go on, which were usually more trouble than they were worth—not like he ever saw the money, because it went directly to Lady. And the missions weren't the type to pay well anyway: usually just easy but unpleasant jobs that she didn't feel like doing herself, so each annoying mission barely added to the apparently astronomical sum of money that he owed her.

He would say that he was paying back his debt to her, but not getting paid for jobs meant that he couldn't pay back anyone else he was indebted to. And that was never a good thing.

At least the constant debt and terrible missions were a continued reason for him to resent her and push her away. She noticed it, too, pointing out that he was being, as she liked to say, "cold" to her at least once a visit, but seemed to shrug his behavior off. Maybe, he thought, she was taking advantage of his coldness in order to stave off the urge to rekindle their friendship—pure conjecture, of course, but he saw some validity to it. She didn't have to be friends with him because he didn't have to be friends with her. He would pay her back and then she would be _gone_, and that would be one less meddling female presence in his life.

But then Dante was introduced to the next meddling female presence in his life: a certain Patty Lowell.

Now, he was glad that he had protected Patty—the poor girl had gotten screwed over in a demonic scheme—but resented the fact that she had attached herself to him and refused to let go. Metaphorically speaking. What was worse was that this was all the result of a damned coin toss courtesy of his _good friend_ Morrison, who had taken to exploiting his terrible luck with gambling by doing coin tosses for jobs. Honestly, the only way Dante would win a coin toss was if he called heads on a two-sided coin, but he wouldn't be surprised if it somehow _miraculously_ managed to land on tails just to spite him.

Patty was a very nice girl—bossy and meddling, but very nice when it came down to it. She was only eight, but in ten years she would prove to be a very strong woman. So it didn't come as a surprise when she immediately began idolizing Lady.

"She is _so cool_," Patty marveled, staring at the door that Lady had just exited through. It took a great deal of willpower for him not to start laughing at her, right there and then. "Did you see that pool shot she made?"

Unfortunately, he had. That was the reason he had to take this new, rather annoying-sounding job. "She _is_ good at pool," Dante pointed out, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He would have pulled out a magazine, his usual defense mechanism when he didn't feel like talking to people, but they were all out of reach and he couldn't be bothered to get out of his chair. Maybe if he pretended to fall asleep...

"I bet she's good at _everything_," Patty continued, brushing off her skirt before prancing towards Dante's desk and resting her arms and head on the surface. "Is she a good demon hunter?"

Dante sighed—apparently Patty couldn't tell that he wanted to sleep, or just didn't care. He lifted his head back up and glanced down at her in annoyance. "What's with the sudden interest?" he asked suspiciously.

"Would you just answer the question?" Patty demanded, pounding her fists against the desk.

With a pronounced groan, he sat up completely, straightening and lowering his feet to the floor. "Yeah," he answered, not bothering to hide something that he couldn't deny was true. After all, if she hadn't been good, she would have been killed a long time ago. "She is."

Patty grinned, pushing herself away from the desk and back towards the broom and dustpan she had shoved aside earlier. "I wanna be _just_ like her," she announced proudly.

Well wasn't that just the worst idea _ever_. Dante rolled his eyes and leaned forward, lazily propping his arms up on his desk. "What, a devil hunter?" he asked, and snorted when Patty nodded proudly, adjusting the broom in her grip as if it were a weapon of some sort. "I'm pretty sure you can't hurt a demon with a broom."

"You ever tested it out?" Patty threatened, pointing the broom's bristles at his face as if they would fire out and stab him.

Dante raised his arms in mock-surrender and leaned back in his chair again, this time not bothering to put his feet up on the table. Shutting his eyes, he heard Patty sweeping again, busying herself with chores and perhaps daydreaming of her future as a badass devil hunter. He tried to imagine Patty, still aged eight, wearing a plaid skirt and holding Kalina Ann, but the missile launcher was far too big for her to hold and she fell over. He laughed inwardly at the sight of the frustrated girl pinned under the weight of Kalina Ann, and when Imaginary Patty noticed, she pulled out a handgun and shot him in the face.

Dante shook his head, his forehead aching from the imaginary bullet hole, and he looked back at Patty, who was trying to get the dust out from under the sofa. "You don't want to be like Lady," he decided.

Patty looked back at him with confusion. "Why not?" she asked, pulling the broom out from under the sofa and standing up again. "She's really cool and pretty."

"Doesn't make her a good person," he warned.

"Better than _you_, I bet," Patty sassed back, apparently choosing to ignore the fact that he had rescued her from demons and was now humoring her attempts to be his maid—and he hadn't even made _that_ big of a deal about the pink ribbons and fluffy curtains and stuffed animals all over his home. Some gratitude.

Patty put the broom and dustpan against the wall and moved back to the sofa, readjusting the bright-eyed stuffed animals that were gleefully sitting where he wanted to _nap_. "She likes my taste in decoration," she added, moving a rabbit from the left to the right, then back to where it had been before.

Dante groaned. "She was just—" he started, but then cut himself off when he saw the subdued look on Patty's face. Okay, he was going to say that Lady had just been humoring her, but he wasn't _that_ heartless. Besides, Lady was secretly a fairly girly person, a trait that she tried and for the most part succeeded in hiding, except in those instances when she smiled at the sight of children and the fact that her skin was so sof—

Dangerous territory. Best quit when he had the chance.

"You know what you need, Dante?" Patty asked, sitting down on the sofa. Her curly blonde hair, frilly pink dress, and big blue eyes certain seemed at home amongst the other stuffed animals.

"Some peace and quiet?" he muttered under his breath.

"You need more _girls_ in your life," she decided, nodding confidently. "_I'm_ not enough. Maybe you need Lady around more often. She'll knock some _sense_ into you." She shook her head. "Morrison and I won't be able to do it by ourselves."

While he was definitely offended by the fact that he was a special fixer-upper project, he was more disturbed by the notion of Lady playing a big part in his life again, and not just as a debt collector. It wasn't that he didn't feel the need to spend any more time with her than he already had: it was his worry that the sentiment would change as soon as she started hanging around more. But no, _no_—it wasn't going to happen. It wasn't. "Why would I want her hanging around here again?" he insisted, this time out loud. "It's bad enough when she comes over with awful jobs that I barely even get paid for."

Patty narrowed her eyes, then widened them again in realization. As she leaned forward in her seat one of the stuffed animals began to topple off of the couch, but she quickly stuck her hand out and grabbed it before it could hit the floor. "Did you guys use to be friends?" she asked, taking the stuffed animal, which looked like a donkey with a big pink bow around its neck, and putting it in her lap.

Dante groaned lightly, partially because there was, once again, no point in lying to her—knowing Patty, she would probably ask Lady the next time she was over anyway if she wasn't satisfied with his response. "Yeah," he answered. "And partners."

Patty nodded sagely, clutching the stuffed donkey closer to her. "What happened?"

He sat up and scratched his head, unsure of how to explain it to her. It was a long, twisted story and he wasn't even sure how to broach it. When should he start, at Temen-ni-gru, where he unabashedly flirted with her and tried to kiss her and eventually decided that he felt something deeper? Or perhaps, start when he had held her in his arms on the street and hoped that they could get over their differences and work together. Or maybe he should start when she injured herself and crashed on his couch, waking up the next morning to decide that she was willing to put up with him; or even before that, with all of the times he asked to spend time with her and she had rebutted him.

Either way, it seemed almost impossible to avoid what one of the catalysts for their rift had been: his feelings for her. He felt uncomfortable enough thinking about it in the first place without having to say it out loud, and the consequences of doing so seemed to outweigh the benefits of being completely honest. Patty seemed the type to tease him about, as she would probably call it, his "crush" on Lady for hours on end, and perhaps unwittingly bring it up the next time the woman came over, which could even be in a few hours, if she needed to report additional information for his job. And as if bringing up that specific fact wouldn't make all subsequent interactions with her even more awkward than they already were—for Lady would assume that he still hadn't let go,_ which he totally had_—the girl would then probably start playing matchmaker, trying to set them up together. That, in and of itself, would lead to disaster.

"I don't know," Dante finally answered, shrugging. "Shit fell apart. It wasn't working out. Now she's just a bitch, and I don't need to put up with it."

"It didn't _look_ like she was being mean," Patty commented, readjusting the ribbon on the stuffed animal in her lap. She looked up and, noticing the incredulous look on Dante's face, added: "Not to me, anyway. You were meaner to her than she was to you."

Dante laughed bitterly. "That's because she's the bearer of bad news," he explained, sitting up. "She comes marching into my office with jobs that take _way_ too much time and energy to clear, and that wouldn't pay well even if I _saw_ the money that was made, because _she_ always takes the money. Oh yeah, and about that _money_ that I apparently owe her—"

"Well, maybe she's just being hard on you because she likes you?" Patty interjected, leaning forward as if it helped to make her case more convincing. "You know," she added as Dante sat in stunned silence, "_like_ likes you."

"Patty," Dante started, feeling sufficiently uncomfortable for reasons that made him even _more_ uncomfortable, "adults ... don't work like that."

"Well, I think you try should be her _friend_ again," Patty decided, hopping off of the sofa and replacing the stuffed donkey in the little nook she had been sitting in. She then turned to face Dante again, hands on her hips and glaring proudly. "And if you don't, then _I'll_ just be her friend and spend lots of time with her and you'll have to _deal_ with it."

Dante shook the paralysis off, getting up to grab a magazine from the pile so he could finally properly ignore her. "Whatever you want to do," he responded, because at least she wasn't suggesting that he should try to be Lady's more-than-just-friends again. "Doesn't matter to me."

* * *

"Well, it's been a nice visit, but I should be off," Trish mentioned, stepping out of the bathroom with her toothbrush in hand, which she put back into her worn brown travel bag before closing it. "I've stayed long enough as it is."

"Barely two days? Trish, you're _killing _me," Dante joked, walking out of the kitchen with a half-eaten slice of pizza. "Don't tell me my company is _that_ bad."

"No, I just need to get going," she explained, gracing Dante with a rare, genuine smile as she walked towards his desk, where she had left Luce and Ombra. "Not that I haven't had fun." Grabbing a hold of her guns, she quickly scrutinized them before turning back to Dante. "Mind if I use your cleaning stuff for a quick job? Mine's already packed."

"Go right again," Dante said, taking one last bite of pizza and leaning against the pool table.

Trish moved to the other side of Dante's desk and sat in his chair, grabbing his cleaning kit from a drawer. As she got to work, she glanced up at Dante and, with a tone so casual that it was suspicious, said: "I like her."

"Who, Patty?" he asked, hoping _that_ guess was the correct one.

"Well, her too," Trish answered. "Say bye to her for me if I end up leaving before she shows up."

"Will do."

"I was talking about Lady, though," she continued, looking back down at the cleaning job she was doing on Luce. "You didn't do her justice in your description of her." Trish then looked up in consideration, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, I'm not referring to the poignant alcoholic _odes to her_ _perfection_ that you did a few times when we first started working together, because as far as I can see, you were right on several of those points." She then looked back down at her guns, admiring the work she had already done. "I'm talking about the bitter descriptions about how she was an ungrateful bitch and a total nuisance. She's definitely feisty and demanding, but I think you might have been a bit harsh on her." She looked back up at Dante, grinning in satisfaction at what must have been a pretty stunned look on his face. "Although I like how the two of you played down what's gone on. She was appropriately angry and you were irritatingly indifferent. Subtle."

The one problem with Trish's sarcasm, Dante noticed, was that she was so _good_ at it that he sometimes wondered where the truth in her statements was. Still, this was now the _second_ person in a month to insinuate something about his non-relationship with Lady where one had definitely been enough. "I'm _over_ her, what do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I don't think you are," Trish said, shaking her head, "and I don't think you'll ever be. You'll never feel anything for anyone else as long as she's in your mind."

Dante looked forward, leaning his head back slightly, before looking back at Trish. "I _could_ have loved you, you know."

"No," she responded, barely fighting off a snort, "you didn't and you wouldn't have. And I'm not talking about the family resemblance." Smirking, she closed Luce and moved on to Ombra. "No matter how hard you've tried to convince me that you felt _nothing_ for Lady, I've always sensed this ... this _sadness_ underneath. Maybe you _thought_ you were over her, but you're lying to yourself because you think you'll be happier that way. But you're not going to move on, so you might as well stop denying it."

Dante frowned deeply, unsettled by Trish's words. "Trish—"

"No, _don't_," she interrupted. "You're just going to come up with more excuses." Trish didn't even look up from her cleaning of Ombra as she spoke. "No matter how hard you fight back, and no matter how hard you try to push her away, you'll never succeed. Besides, the circumstances of how you met were too disturbing to make you forget her, and too early for you to stop comparing every woman you see to her. And don't deny it, you did it with me too," she scolded. Seemingly satisfied with Ombra's state of cleanliness, she looked back up at Dante, a move that he noticed out of the corner of his eye because he couldn't bear to look at her. "It doesn't matter if you like her and she doesn't like you or the other way around or _anything_. She'll always be there in your mind, and as you probably still haven't realized, you'll always be in _hers_. It's too late to forget her; it was too late as soon as you two met."

Dante heard her stand and turned back to look at her. She was repacking his cleaning kit and, in noticing him watching her, added: "But that was just my opinion. You don't have to agree with me."

It was stupid. What did she know? Sure she had made some good points; sure some things had rung true. It didn't mean she was right about him, her; _them_. It didn't have to mean anything at all.

Trish had since put the cleaning kit back and slung her bag over her shoulder, and was now making her way towards him. Dante, snapping himself out of his reverie, asked, trying to be as casual as possible: "So, where you headed off to this time?"

"I've got a lot of them that I'm following," she answered, referring to the demons that she was hunting. She had mentioned to him, earlier, that she enjoyed those chases more than the average hunt, and was so glad she had taken the opportunity to do so. Sure, sometimes a plain old slaughtering of lesser demons was satisfying, but nothing quite surpassed the thrill of chasing a shape-shifter.

"If you get sick of it, you could always come back here," he offered, grabbing the cue ball from the pool table and tossing it up into the air. He could feel normality slowly seeping back into the conversation, having treaded such a fine, dangerous line only a minute earlier. As long as he remained unperturbed, it meant that her words hadn't affected him, and were therefore irrelevant.

"Why, that's uncharacteristically kind of you," Trish joked, her face close to his and her voice very light and airy—a different kind of sarcasm this time—"but for the time being I think I want to travel around a bit." She smiled sincerely, because it was true, and who was he to deny her happiness?

"Take care of yourself, alright?" Dante said, watching as Trish moved towards the door.

"You too, baby," she responded as she went through the door, and it was like she was laughing at him even though she wasn't.

He forced the strange feeling out—strange feeling; there _was_ no strange feeling—and moved to the door to watch Trish make her way down the street. He was surprised to find that Lady had intercepted her, and was offering the blonde demon a ride on her motorcycle. They chatted, laughed, and then drove away, and for some reason he found it comforting that two of the most important women in his life seemed to get along.

* * *

"So, Lady," Dante said, reaching for one of the remaining pieces of pizza in front of them. Lady looked back up at him, her gaze shifting away from the amulet she had been conspicuously eyeing. "You've been spending a lot of time at the shop..."

"Yeah?" Lady lazily responded, leaning back into the cushions of the booth. "I'm friends with Patty now. You have a problem with that?"

"No, I don't care," he answered, and then shoved a slice of pizza into his mouth.

Lady watched him curiously before grabbing the second to last slice to nibble on as well—apparently relenting on her decision that she was too full to continue eating. "Why did you ask?" she asked after a moment, her eyes not leaving him all the while.

Dante felt odd under her gaze, not because he had forgotten how intense it was. He masked the sensation with a laugh. "No, I was just thinking."

"About?" she pressed, taking another bite of pizza.

"About the poker night," he explained, picking up the last slice of pizza, deciding that at least he still had his sundae to hide behind when the pizza was done. "You seemed pretty worried about me during the mission, that's all."

Lady scoffed. "Yeah, because the job rode on you not being an awful card player _as usual_. Isn't that reason for me to be worried?"

Dante shrugged. He supposed that she did have a point about his unfortunate bad luck and how his inability to gamble could have led to their downfall—however, he had ultimately pulled through and they had killed the demon. Still, in the ensuing weeks he had thought a lot about the concerned looks on her face as she dealt cards and served coffee and shot him in the chest and grazed his heart, and in that moment realized that the attraction hadn't really left so much as it had changed. A part of his heart still ached at the thought of her, but it wasn't so much out of a desire to begin a relationship with her so much as fix their old one, repairing what had been broken years before. He hoped that, because she was still sitting with him, she felt the same way, and that she wasn't there _just_ to snatch the amulet from him with he was distracted.

Lady wasn't talking, and Dante, deciding that he didn't have anything to say either, started digging into his strawberry sundae. After a tense moment, she pointed out: "You never answered my question."

"About you being worried?" Dante asked, swirling the strawberries and ice cream together.

"No, about why you asked me that question." She followed his spoon with her eyes as he scooped up the sweet ice cream and placed it into his mouth. "What did the story of the poker night have to do with what you said before?"

He looked back down at his sundae, absently playing with it some more. "I was just thinking," he started. He realized that their conversation was cyclical, and, in that instant, realized that that was just the nature of their relationship. Even the conversations that he had with other people about her were cyclical: they were all saying the same thing. He had just refused to listen.

"About?" she repeated, this time a little bit more urgently.

There were two ways to break the pattern, and both involved Lady deciding that she was satisfied with his answer. One was to tell the truth, be completely and openly honest with her and satisfying the goal of her asking the question in the first place; the other was telling a lie so obvious that it couldn't be anything but false, at which point she would decide that she didn't particularly want to _hear_ what the truth was if he was so willing to lie and stop asking the questions. Neither had anything to do with respect or disrespect, or love or hate or any other complicated emotion, because that was almost _peripheral_ to their relationship. As Trish had pointed out months earlier, they were apparently stuck together, stuck in each other's minds whether they liked it or not. He would always remember her and she would always remember him regardless of their opinions for one another; though it was to his benefit, at least at this moment, to try to be her friend.

"About how Patty said that we were friends that night." He put the spoon down and looked at her intently. "Are we?"

Lady stared back at him, her expression betraying a bit of surprise at his question. She didn't answer, looking back at him uncertainly. Subtly, he saw different emotions pass over her face and through her eyes, as if she were trying on different masks before deciding how she wanted to answer his question. It was right there and then that he realized that he was seeing Lady unmasked, Lady without her stubborn answer at hand and her wall of protection to hide behind or anything of the sort. He didn't smile because he didn't want to show _his_ hand—and, for a second, laughed at the loss of her immaculate poker face where his, which had always been weaker, was still standing strong—but would have if he could.

Abruptly, she asked: "If I decided I wanted to work with you again, what would you say?" She paused, blinked, and added: "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically?" he confirmed, and watched as she nodded in affirmation. The question would have taken him by surprise if it hadn't already done so countless times before—only this time she was the one asking, albeit hypothetically. It was a complicated question that left a lot to consider, but it was still one that he had already answered: "I'd say yes."

"Okay," she responded, and her eyes briefly flitted back down to the amulet—apparently things were back to normal, if she was already plotting how to get a hold of the amulet again instead of allowing their conversation to distract her from her purpose. "I was just wondering."

Then Lady smiled, and Dante did too at the idea that he had made her smile again for the first time in five and a half years.


	10. III,2: Second Opinion

...oh yeah, I have a story called _The Passage of Time_! I'd better write it when I'm done with this research paper! Or ... after I update _Observance_, anyway. And then go back to school. Um. D:

How much do you guys rock? Let me count the ways... Other than how awesome and supportive you are despite the fact that I should probably update more often—but guys guys guys it's hard when _Fable II_ is so distracting and _fun_—

FYI, I surprised myself while writing this chapter. I did _not_ think that certain things would come to light, but wouldn't you know, they _did_. I hope you guys enjoy it, because it's kind of big and I hope it was worth the wait.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Three: Later

_Chapter 2: Second Opinion_

Dante thought of himself as a very nice person, despite the show he sometimes made of being a dick; after all, if he really _were_ a huge asshole, he would never help anyone out, nor indulge them in anyway. And yet he had acted as a guardian of sorts for Patty for some time before her mother had returned, and even for a while afterwards, before the girl had gotten wrapped up in her new school and had less time to bum around the shop. Patty, as obnoxious as she could be at times, really was a rather sweet girl, so he really hadn't minded her hanging around in the end.

In theory, his relationship with Trish had been built on the similar principle of "Damn it, she has nowhere to go and I'm the only person she can trust." While his aptitude for picking up strays did worry him a bit, he had earned a loyal lifelong friend out of Trish, so it had been his pleasure.

This didn't explain why he continued to take jobs from Lady.

The debt had since been repaid—barely. It had helped when Trish had started working missions with him again, which in conjunction with a sudden spike in demonic activity had meant more and better-paying jobs to help him pay back the substantial sum of money he had owed Lady. He remembered the day that Lady had looked at him, dumbfounded, having just mentally calculated that he was no longer in her debt. Now _that_ had been a happy day: he had very nearly stood up and danced right in front of her. He no longer had_ any_ obligation to take her more-trouble-than-they-were-worth missions. No more of that bullshit. He was _free_.

Unfortunately, Morrison moved across the country. His wife had apparently taken a job in Sacramento and had to relocate and of course _Morrison_, who just _had_ to be close to his family, had gladly gone with her, the traitor. And since when was he married with kids, anyway? _Three_ of them? Dante was sure he had invented them, and just found pictures of random children on the Internet to provide proof that he indeed had a lovely little family to care for. The bastard.

This left Devil May Cry without a liaison, and as a result less jobs started coming in. They felt the strain of the diminished income on their bank accounts and _knew_ that they would need to find someone to act as a source of jobs, which according to Trish meant Lady.

"No," Dante immediately protested. "Her jobs suck."

"She knows her thing," Trish reasoned, already looking as if she had a headache. Dante wondered if she had even anticipated his reaction, which in his opinion was a fairly obvious one. "Lady has ears everywhere, somehow. I'm sure she could throw a few jobs our way, at least."

"Her jobs _suck_," Dante repeated, hoping that would work.

"You say this now," Trish mused, "but if she offers one you'll still take it."

"That's not true," he insisted.

"Fine. I'll give her a call right now." And with that, Trish pranced off to the phone to prove her point. Thirty minutes later, Lady was at the shop with a job she wouldn't have time to take, if they were interested. Five minutes later, she had talked him into it, and to this day he still wasn't even sure how she had managed to do it, because the mission, unsurprisingly, had _sucked_.

Thus began the line of jobs that Dante really wished he hadn't taken. She always seemed to find a way to talk him into it: sometimes it was a bet, sometimes a threat. Sometimes the job seemed genuinely interesting, which it was, despite still being more trouble than it was worth. And she must have figured out that the "cleavage push" was a reliable way of getting his attention, because one day she had walked into shop in a pair of short-shorts and a blazer which did a pretty lamentable job at covering up her chest, and the next thing he knew he had accepted a job hunting demons in the damn _sewers_.

The _sewers_.

Dante always wondered why he continued to accept those jobs. He assumed it was for the same reason that he had taken in Trish and entertained Patty: because he was _just that nice_. Or maybe he was trying to do a favor for someone he considered a friend. Or maybe...

Well, it's not like she would change her mind about him—_them_—just because he saved her a trip into the sewers. He was pretty sure _that_ had nothing to do with it. Besides, it didn't matter anymore. They were just friends.

"Why did I just take that job?" Dante asked Trish one night, having just watched Lady leave the shop—or perhaps just watched her ass sway its way out of the room. He couldn't remember. He had recently decided that Trish was an awful influence on Lady's once-subtle sense of sensuality.

Trish shrugged and stretched out on the couch, nearly catlike despite being on her back, to rest. "You _always_ say that," she pointed out.

"I don't understand," Dante reflected, resting his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. "Her jobs absolutely suck, and yet I always find myself taking them." He lifted his head slightly to look at Trish. "Did I really just take that job?"

"Yes." She rolled her eyes before shutting them. "You really don't need to make a show of complaining. You _want_ to take jobs from her, anyway."

"Not true," he protested. "Sometimes I'm _forced_ to take those jobs."

"Why, because she's hypnotized you with her ass?" Trish asked, slyly glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "Smart girl," he heard her whisper under her breath.

Dante opted to ignore that statement, particularly because she was, unfortunately, _right_—granted it wasn't always her ass. Sometimes it was her chest; sometimes her eyes. "No, because _sometimes_ my _wonderful_ partner runs off for some cult island with my father's sword and I have to chase after her." He confidently put his feet up on his desk and waited for her reaction—even _she_ would have to admit that he had forced to get involved in the Fortuna mission because of her actions.

"You would have taken it anyway," Trish accused. "And I say this because, according to Lady, you only realized that I had left when you were about to tell me: 'Hey Trish, let's go to Fortuna and investigate this cult for Lady.' The rest of the time, you were locked in a staring match with her."

"She's lying," he lied. "That's not how it happened."

"Sure," Trish sarcastically agreed, shutting her eyes again. "Then it _is_ my fault. Of course. I believe you."

They sat in silence, and Dante remembered that particular case. The mere _thought _of Fortuna stirred up some bile—Nero was a good kid, however, as he always said and was inclined to repeat: "That case was definitely more trouble than it was worth."

She laughed. "You always say _that_, too."

Dante shrugged despite the fact that Trish wasn't looking at him. "Doesn't make it any less true."

"Then why _do_ you always take jobs that you know you won't enjoy?" Trish goaded, opening her eyes and sitting up again. "It wouldn't have anything to do with your little crush on Lady, would it?"

Loath as he was to admit it, he did worry that she might be right. After all, despite her tendency to torture him with awful jobs—and occasionally not pay enough—he considered Lady a good friend, and she felt the same despite maintaining some professional distance. Sure, she still enjoyed busting his balls and he liked trying to push her buttons when he saw an opening, but they had respect for each other and weren't afraid to admit it. What was there to be ashamed of? They were friends. Maybe Dante wanted to be _more_ than friends—a _bit_—but that was beside the point. It was a non-issue, except for some of the more flirtatious things she did to coax him into jobs. But that wasn't _her_ specifically, was it? He had an appreciation for the female form, and she had a fine female form indeed.

A little voice at the back of his head pointed out that Trish didn't manipulate him nearly as much as Lady did, but Trish also didn't _try_ to manipulate him as much. She was just Trish, and by virtue of being Trish, tended to be right no matter how much he fought it, so there was no point in disagreeing with her.

Wait. That would mean she was right on _this_ matter as well.

"Well, it's still a job, isn't it?" Dante pointed out, recovering from his brief moment of thought. "Even if it's a shitty job, she's still bringing us work."

"Mmhm," Trish agreed, with a little too much attitude for his tastes.

"Lady's my _friend_," he insisted. "I like to do favors for friends."

"Do favors usually involve fighting giant statues?" Trish asked, standing up and walking across the room. "Or traveling across the country? Or traipsing through the sewers? Or camping out in the wilderness, waiting for a demon who randomly and unpredictably appears on a hillside every one to three day to wreak havoc and eat livestock?"

That last one was the job Lady had just given them, and it sounded even _worse_ when Trish put it like that. "This job is gonna _suck_," Dante decided miserably.

"You don't just do it because she's your friend, you do it because she's attractive and you _want_ her," Trish continued, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. "And don't deny that she's attractive, because you know it's true."

"Yeah, so?" Dante admitted, because Trish was right about that at least. "She's ... _beautiful_, I don't know." He wasn't sure how to put it: he wasn't really good at saying romantic things. But Trish still seemed satisfied by the answer and was now smiling. "What?" he asked.

"You're just proving my point," she explained. "It's kind of cute. You're a romantic, even if you have no idea what you're doing."

"I'm not proving your point, because I only said she was beautiful. That's not a confession of undying love, that's a confession of undying _hotness_," he protested. There was no _love_ there; he wanted her a _bit_. Sex would be nice, a relationship ... well, he wasn't even sure he wanted a relationship. That was all. Nothing to make a big deal about. "And for your information I _do_ know what I'm doing, you've just never seen me do it." That was true to an extent, but she didn't need to know that.

"Dante, your idea of a date is picking up a girl at a bar and buying her drinks until she wants you enough to drag you into the bathroom for a blowjob," she said, frowning. He was a little bit appalled that she thought so little of his sense of seduction, but had to admit that it _was_ a tried and true strategy and he was proud of it. "That's not romance."

"Okay, I don't _just_ do that," Dante argued. He also didn't do it very often, thank-you-very-much. "I've gone on actual dates before." In the ensuing moment of silence, he felt Trish's eyes bore into him until he had to speak again: "I took Lady on a date." He paused. "Once."

"Did she _know_ it was a date?" Trish asked sarcastically.

"Yes," he half-lied. He had phrased it as a dinner amongst friends—she had later said that she had thought it was a date but didn't want to admit it to herself. Close enough.

"How did it go?" she continued.

"It was nice," he answered, and he wasn't lying. It had been a nice dinner, and they had both enjoyed themselves. He just hadn't been able to ask her on a second "dinner amongst friends" lest she get suspicious. "We went to a nice bistro." He paused again, and his pensive face must have given something away because Trish was now watching him suspiciously. "She walked out two months later."

"Oh, there's the catch," Trish noted, and then frowned. "Wait, I _heard_ about that 'date.' It was _supposed_ to be a friendly dinner."

"Who'd you hear it from?" Dante asked in shock. He couldn't remember telling her that—but it might have been at the beginning of their friendship, when he was still sore about what had happened. Or had Lady brought it up one day, and if that were the case had they shared a laugh about him? He wouldn't have put it past either of them.

"Can't remember," Trish said, shrugging. "You know, friends don't take friends on dates. Just like how friends don't normally do ridiculous favors for friends."

"In case you haven't realized, we're not exactly normal people," Dante pointed out, and a part of him suddenly wondered if Lady still thought of him as just a demon, or if she acknowledged his humanity. It hadn't come up in the past seven years, so there was no telling. Hopefully, that meant it was a non-issue, just like his attraction to her.

"Still, there's a limit for what people do for their friends as favors, whether they're human or demon," Trish added.

"You know, one of these days, I'm going to say no to one of Lady's jobs just to see how she responds," Dante threatened. "I'll let her give the entire speech while shaking her tits for all I care, but in the end the answer will_ still_ be no, and she'll have to do it herself."

Trish smiled. "No, you won't," she corrected, and damn it, she was right.

"No, I won't," Dante conceded.

* * *

Lady, as it turned out, simply had an unfortunate knack for hearing about unpleasant jobs. One day, hanging out at Devil May Cry, she shared a few of her least favorite jobs, and as she admitted: "Not even _I_ could send another person on those."

"You'd think the sewers would have been one of those," Dante muttered under his breath.

"I'm not a big fan of rats," she stated, though she seemed a bit sheepish as she admitted it.

Of Lady's jobs, there had been the cave of Blood-Goyles, which she had taken out of her pleasure of shooting down the little buggers, but had ended up being an infestation so out of hand that she still tried to avoid Blood-Goyles. Then there was the demon that lived in the swamp, by which she meant in the swamp water itself, which meant that she had to wade through the muck to fish him out. That had ended in a slew of mosquito bites and one ruined pair of jeans. And then there had been the pimp demon.

"Pimp demon?" Trish asked, her face revealing some horror.

"He disguised himself as a pimp," Lady explained. "Unfortunately, nobody could figure out who the pimp in question was, and my source could only narrow the list of possibilities down to about four. It ended up being my job to figure out which one were the legitimate pimps and which one the demon." Lady snorted, as if amused by the idea of pimps being _legitimate_. "Anyway, I had to get close to them somehow, so I did my fair share of undercover work."

The image of Lady hanging off some pimp's arms in front of a crowd of willing customers entered his mind, and to his discomfort her image winked at him. "You didn't have to—" Dante started, appalled.

"_No_, I never had to whore myself out or _anything_," Lady quickly insisted. "Just had to pretend that I was interested in being in their service. It never got so far that I needed a ... a _test run_ or anything. Just had to flirt." She shrugged lightly, though her shoulders still seemed stiff as if the memory were making her uncomfortable. "Second one I investigated ended up being the demon, and killing him ended up being easier than finding him in the first place."

"We could have taken that one," Trish offered belatedly, and the guilt on her face was transparent. "It would have been easier for me to sense whether the pimps were demons, and Dante sure wouldn't have minded using his interest in the _merchandise_ to get close —"

"Absolutely _not_," Lady interrupted before taking a breath and continuing: "It was _my_ mission, _my_ responsibility, and there was no way I was letting you guys get involved in that one, no matter how unpleasant it was for me." She shook her head and crossed her arms again, hugging herself. "It's like I said: not even _I_ could send another person on a mission like that."

The conversation about the pimp demon ended there, because, honestly? It was one that neither of the three of them wanted to continue.

Thankfully, not all of Lady's jobs were awful; some were pretty entertaining and well paying. That usually involved killing swarms of lesser demons in a distant location, which pretty much meant a free road trip to a city she had never visited to kill a bunch of weak demons in the most satisfying way imaginable for a substantial sum of cash. Lady usually asked Dante and Trish to come along on missions like that simply because they were too good to pass up, and having company only made them more fun. The two other devil hunters were always grateful for the invitations.

It was on one of those road trips that Dante learned why Lady egged him into taking her jobs: she had promised Trish that she would provide jobs for them no matter how awful they were. Dante, after all, was pretty bad at accepting jobs when he didn't feel like it, and she felt as though it was her responsibility as their informant to make sure they had a steady income. She wasn't intentionally digging up awful jobs to torture him, but merely providing them with jobs when they needed them, even when the ones she found were unpleasant.

Part of him warmed at that thought—the same part of him that had gotten so uncomfortable at the thought of Lady undercover as a prostitute.

* * *

Some two or three years after Lady had first started providing them jobs, Dante decided that the professional distance between himself and Lady hadn't shrunk at all since they started working together a bit more. Sure she hung out at the shop with them when she had the time and the three of them were very good friends, but he found that he didn't know as much about how she was doing as he would have liked. She had never been that great about opening up and talking about her feelings—yet again, he had never been a pro at that either, only doing so under the direst circumstances—so he never expected to sit down and talk about how this was bothering her or whatever. But he could _tell_ when things were bothering her and it frustrated him that he didn't know what they were, though he wondered when he had developed a sense for such things.

But there had to be a _reason_, he thought, that she kept him at a distance. Sure, they shared the usual banter, but there seemed to be a wall that she insisted on keeping up. A part of Dante suspected that maybe she was afraid of letting anyone get too close, just in case they pulled the rug out from under her feet and laughed while she fell.

Maybe Trish knew. The girls spent a lot of time together chatting, didn't they?

"You think I know?" Trish asked, one eyebrow raised in her typical expression of sultry annoyance. He realized that she had started using that that face recently when he brought up Lady and that it usually meant: "Stop talking right now, please," but he opted to keep going anyway.

"I don't _know_," Dante answered, a little exasperated. "That's why I'm asking you."

Trish laughed. "What, you think we girl-talk or something?" She slid off of the desk she was sitting on and walked right past him into the kitchen, and he followed. "It's not like we sit around and talk about our feelings, and besides," she added, opening the fridge door and pulling out the container of orange juice, "if you were right about her being afraid of letting people get close, why would she open up to someone about it?"

Touché. "I give up," Dante admitted, leaving her in the kitchen as he tramped back to his desk to sit in his frustration. She soon rejoined him, glass of orange juice in hand, and he added: "If there's one person I will never understand, _ever_, it's Lady."

"What's there not to understand about her?" Trish shrugged, returning to her usual spot on the corner of the desk. "She's just not _impressed_ by you, even though you like to act like you're the best thing that humanity's ever been graced with."

"If you want to get _technical_," he pointed out, "I _have_ surpassed my father..."

Trish rolled her eyes. "Lady just doesn't fall for the same tricks that other girls do."

"And how do you know all this?" he asked suspiciously. "Is _this_ what you talk about?"

"Close. We complain about how big of an idiot you are." Trish smiled lightly at his lack of a response. He could have protested, but there was no point. "Look," she continued, "I know you've been obsessed with Lady for the past—it's been more than fifteen years by now, hasn't it?"

"Twenty," he corrected, and realized how pathetic that sounded as soon as he said it. His head dropped to the desk with a loud but painless thud.

"That's pretty pathetic," Trish echoed, trying to hide her wince and failing. "When are you going to get over her?"

Dante lifted his head and glared at her in frustration. "You were the one who told me that I would never get over her." Maybe the conversation had happened several years ago, but her message had stuck with him fiercely. She was definitely singing a different tune now. "So what, now it's a problem that I still want her?"

"I was hoping I was _wrong_!" Trish insisted, but her expression soon changed to a mischievous one, which usually was a bad sign. "And by the way, you just acknowledged that you're not over her."

His mouth dropped. Oh, he had been _had_.

"If she hasn't said yes to you _by now_," Trish continued, that smug expression still adorning her face—oh how he longed to wipe it off—"she's probably not going to say yes at all. She knows you're attracted to her—"

"Has she told you that _too_, or are you going off of something I told you ten _years_ ago when we first met?" Dante bitterly asked.

"She's not dense," Trish informed him, "and neither am I. She doesn't tell me what she thinks about this whole thing, but I can tell." She sighed tiredly. "What are you going to do then? Sit around and wait for her to change her mind? Wait for her to open up to you and _talk_ to you about her _feelings_ and how she's afraid of opening up to you because she's confused and doesn't know what's going on in her head?" The blonde finished her short rant with a small scoff and tensely started drinking her orange juice.

"Why is this pissing you off so much?" Dante asked suspiciously. "It's not like we sit around talking about shit like this all of the time." When she didn't answer but instead drained her cup, he added nonchalantly: "Are you jealous or something?"

Trish nearly spat her orange juice back into the cup. "_Why_ would I be jealous?" she asked when she had recovered, though it definitely seemed like some laughter was sneaking into her words. "I _live_ with you. You're annoying enough as it is."

"Thanks for that," he answered morosely. Dante wondered if his life would have been easier if she kowtowed at his feet like the girls at bars did. No, that would have been pretty awkward. He wouldn't change Trish, even if he could.

"Look, Dante, you want my honest opinion, no bullshit?" she continued, sighing at him. "Here it is: this has been going on for a really long time. You have two options at this point: either drop her, or stop trying to fool yourself and make a move."

No offense to Trish's usual wisdom, but that was a _terrible_ idea. Dante had already made one such move, and that hadn't gone off well, to say the least. Sure, he and Lady were ten years older than they were then, but did that mean that things had changed enough between them for her to accept him; or if she rejected him, for her to not run away again?

Trish shook her head when he didn't respond. "Twenty _years_, Dante. I know that's not that much to us, but it's still a long time." She stood, empty glass in hand, and began walking into the kitchen. "Especially when you remember that you and I both will outlive Lady."

* * *

"You guys want Chinese for dinner?" Trish asked one night as the three of them were sitting around the shop chatting. Lady had swung by to see them, having been in the neighborhood getting her bike tuned up. She was turning up more and more lately just to spend time with them, not that either of them minded. Dante had forgotten how much fun it was to spend time with Lady on a more consistent basis, instead of the somewhat frequent but still sporadic visits that she had graced them with over the past few years.

"Bit early for dinner, isn't it Trish?" Dante asked, looking at the clock on the wall. It was nearing 6:30—they usually didn't think about ordering food until about 7, sometimes even 7:30.

"Actually, I was thinking of going there and picking up the order myself," Trish explained. "It's a nice day, so I wanted to walk around and get some fresh air before the sun sets."

"That doesn't mean you have to call it in now," he pointed out.

"No, I'm going to order it when I get there, so figure out what you want now," Trish ordered, crossing her arms.

As Lady began agreeably discussing dinner with Trish, Dante sat frowning. He couldn't help but think that Trish's sudden desire to go out and buy food was some kind of set-up, particularly given the conversation they had two months ago about Dante needing to act now or not at all. What did she think she was doing, forcing him to confront the situation? Giving them an opportunity to have some alone time? But Trish appeared forthright—she wasn't giving him sly, conspiratorial looks or winks. Was he just imagining things?

"Dante!" Lady suddenly exclaimed. "Chicken or pork?"

He snapped out of his thoughts to see Lady and Trish staring at him, Lady frustrated and Trish bored. "Chicken," he answered, not sure what dish he had agreed to except that chicken was in it. He could have just ordered chicken on a stick covered in crap for all he knew, but he didn't bother inquiring. It was probably fried rice anyway, since he had taken to ordering that all of the time lately.

"Okay, I'll be back in about an hour, probably," Trish informed them, standing up and grabbing her keys from Dante's desk. "Depends on how fast they make the food."

"That could mean _anything_," Lady joked, leaning forward on the couch.

"_Exactly_. See you guys in a bit." With a light wave, she strutted out the door, leaving the two of them alone in a conspicuous if not uncomfortable silence.

Dante had often thought about what he might say to Lady if he did get the opportunity to talk to her one-on-one. Despite Trish's advice he wasn't going to come right out and confess anything to her, tell her that he still felt something if she was interested. He knew better than that. Lady needed time to get used to things and get comfortable in situations, so it was best to ease into things, slowly but surely. Besides, if he decided that it wasn't worth it to pursue anything, at least he could know that he was building a strong foundation for their friendship to rest upon.

And yet, if you were to honestly ask him what he thought, he would respond that their friendship was stronger now than it had been ten years ago. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but he liked it.

"I meant to ask you," Lady suddenly said, glancing over at Dante. "I haven't heard from Patty recently. Have you?"

"Oh, yeah," he casually answered. "She's gotten into the play or something in high school. It's been keeping her kind of busy. She said she'd call when it got closer to the show itself, that way she could get us tickets to go see it." He shrugged. "You interested?"

"Of course!" Lady smiled widely. "How old is she now? She's already in her teens, right?"

"Fourteen or fifteen," Dante estimated. "She just started high school."

"Wow. _Milestone_," Lady mused, leaning back in her seat. She had a dreamy look on her face, as if she were trying to remember something—Patty when she had been younger, or what Lady's own, admittedly brief high school experience had been like... He couldn't tell exactly, but the look on her face certainly wasn't unhappy, merely nostalgic. "She's gotten so old, Dante," she continued wistfully. "I can't believe she's grown up so quickly."

"She's a good kid. We raised her well," he joked, and immediately regretted saying something like that to Lady. To his surprise, though, she was smiling at his joke, though from the look on her face he knew it was despite herself. "You know, she's not the only one with a milestone birthday or whatever."

"Who else?" Lady asked, then nodded. "Oh right, you're turning _forty_." She grinned widely. "Old man."

"Forty years _young_," Dante insisted, before his own nostalgia overtook him to the point of submersion. Everything from his mood to the way he was looking at Lady felt like it had suddenly shifted—he blinked. "I don't get it."

"Get what?" She frowned, noticing the shift as well.

"I always felt like my life moved in steps of ten years," Dante admitted, looking at the sturdy front door directly in front of him. "It was always ten years, give or take, and then something big would happen, and I could look back and say: 'That's what it was like.' This one is..." He chucked. "You're going to make fun of me, but it's the only thing I could come up with."

"I'll _try_ not to," Lady promised.

"_Distinction_," he said, nearly laughing at himself for saying it. Lady let out a little chuckle at the word. "Sounds like I should have a cup of tea when I say it, right?"

"Who _knew_ you were such a gentleman?" she joked.

Dante shrugged. "It's kind of the right word, though," he maintained. "I beat Mundus, sealed Abigail, stopped the Order of the Sword, surpassed my father in strength—I don't have a religion based after me like he does, but seeing what the Order of the Sword was like I think I'm glad. The problem is..." he trailed off, glancing at Lady who was staring back with an oddly soft expression. "It'll end like the others. That scares me."

"If it you're afraid that you're going to mess up and people will get hurt, Trish and I will help," Lady insisted. She stood from her seat and walked over to the edge of the desk, Trish's usual perch. Trish wasn't there to claim that seat—it was Lady's, and for a moment it seemed as if it had always been, despite the fact that she had always sat on the couch when they worked together. "That's a big weight to carry on your shoulders, Mr. _Son of Sparda_, but you're _not_ alone."

"Thanks," Dante replied, smiling at her vehemence.

"The feeling of ... _distinction_ doesn't _have_ to end," Lady continued assuredly, apparently swallowing a chuckle at the word "distinction." "I don't know why you think that things have to be different every ten years. Milestones happen, but it's not like there's a timer counting down when the next big important thing has to happen."

"It's how it's worked so far, though," he justified.

"Well, what were those milestones, I guess?" she asked.

Dante thought for a moment. "My mother's death was the first," he answered, watching his wince reflected in Lady's own. "And then Temen-ni-gru."

"Understandable." That was probably one of her milestones as well, given everything that happened that night. "And the third would be going to Mallet Island with Trish," Lady assumed, "banishing Mundus, just as your father had, and seeing ... seeing Vergil, right?" She treated those last words with a feather-lightness that could have only come from knowing the man in question, and the impossibly strong connection that Dante felt to him despite everything.

"No," Dante corrected, shaking his head. "It was big, but it wasn't the milestone. That just helped to push me forward. The milestone—" He stopped.

"What?" Lady asked, frowning in concern.

He was _talking_ to Lady. About his life, his ambitions, his fears—things that he didn't even tell _Trish_, and he considered her his best friend. Last time they had apparently talked like this, she had run away in fear for reasons that he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around. She wasn't running this time.

"The other one was when you left," he finally said, suddenly unafraid of speaking.

Lady's face seamlessly changed from concern to guilt. The shift was so fluid and unobstructed by surprise that he wondered if she had seen his response coming, had been waiting for it but hoped that he wouldn't say it. "Oh," she said, looking down.

"We talked that day," Dante continued, leaning forward, "just like we are now. But this time you're _helping_, not _yelling_."

She looked back at him almost angrily. "I _know_," she insisted, standing up and turning away from him. "You might have trouble believing this, but I _did_ feel bad about that. I didn't stop thinking about it the entire time I was out of town, which is why I came back to collect my debt once I got back so I could _talk_ to you."

"What?" he asked in disbelief.

"I really don't want to talk about it," she raved, curling in on herself slightly as she spoke. "I hate talking about my feelings and I hate feeling vulnerable and I hate knowing that I depend on people and that's why I left," she concluded, turning to face him again.

Dante opened his mouth, and a sound might have come out, but he really wasn't sure what it might have been because he hadn't even been listening to himself.

"I ... hated knowing that you were making me happy," Lady continued. "So I thought it would be a good idea to work by myself for a bit. And then you told me that you loved me and I didn't want to deal with that information, so I found an excuse to leave immediately and did just that. It wasn't _proud_ of it."

"Why are you telling me this _now_?" Dante asked hoarsely, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

"Because it's been ten years," she answered honestly and painfully, lifting and dropping her arms as she said it. "For God's sake, it's been _ten years_, and it was the stupidest thing I've ever done."

Dante wasn't sure how to respond. He felt himself look back to everything that had happened between them, from the beginning of their work together to that one argument, to her return, through all of their jobs and adventures and light bits of conversation together, up until that very moment. He tried to find some kind of logical thread with which to tie everything that he remember and she had just said together so that it might all make some sense. Maybe in his own stupidity, stubbornness, and worry that she might never feel the same way about him, he had overlooked some of her reactions, misinterpreted them as worse than they were, assumed that coldness really meant coldness when it was actually the fear of apologizing.

Did she smile more than he remembered?

"I want to make this up to you," Lady added, and he could tell, now, that she was trying to fill the silence in the room, and maybe bridge the noisy gap between them. Maybe she had gotten worse at hiding her thoughts and feelings over the years, or maybe Dante was just better at finding the truth. "I think I know how." She wrung her fingers and asked: "If I decided I wanted to work with you again, what would you say?"

"Hypothetically?" Dante asked, perhaps out of habit.

"No," she responded. "_Actually_."

Dante smiled. "I'd say yes," he answered. "If you're _interested_."

"I _told_ you it's not a hypothetical question," she insisted, a relieved smile crossing her face again. It was a strong smile, like the ones she usually gave, and her usual confident glow seemed to return to her cheeks. It was a stark contrast to the pale, concerned Lady he had just seen, who in hindsight was the one who had cried on a street corner in his arms.

"Well it's settled then," Dante said, standing and extending his hand to shake hers. "Welcome to Devil May Cry."

Lady smirked, her spirits having definitely returned. "I _sincerely_ thank you for the opportunity," she joked in return, nodding in mock-reverence. "And if I'm not mistaken, don't you have a _second_ spare bedroom?"


	11. III,3: Counting Down

Sorry for the delay, folks! Life ... you know. _Life_. The good news is, there are only two more chapters after this one, so I'm solemnly swearing that this fic will be finished before the summer's end. August, if all goes well. So hold out, folks, because we're starting to wind down and things are starting to go very well.

This is a freaking long chapter, by the way. I'd say that it's to make up for the wait, but it's actually because a lot has to happen before the last chapter. As predicted, we're starting to broach into DMC2 territory, which is all I'm going to say about that because it's a little bit tricky and I don't want to spoil it. This Dante isn't _exaaaaactly_ the Dante of DMC2, by the way, but I don't think anyone wants to remember that Dante anyway. Instead, this is more of the Dante of the later games (3 and 4) who grows up a bit and then goes through the events of DMC2.

Speaking of which, some of you may have noticed that I posted the prologue of the Lady-centric version of this fic, called _Ephemerality_. People have read it, but only one person has reviewed—which, I'm not going to lie, is actually kind of heartbreaking. I'm not trying to be a reviewmonger, I promise, but if you haven't already read it, go ahead and do so, and if you liked it please let me know! I'm going to continue updating even if nobody reads it, but still, it's nice to know whether or not people like what I'm doing.

Be warned, there are some _themes_ here. :) Let me know if you think I need to bump up the rating, but I think we're still safe at T.

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Three: Longevity

_Chapter 3: Counting Down_

Trish, despite still looking and acting like woman in her early thirties, was actually chronologically about fourteen years old, and while she didn't _behave_ like an overgrown teenager, there were certain younger qualities that the demon exhibited. For instance, Trish could be strangely petulant at times, whimsically refusing to do something just because it inconvenienced her or because she didn't _feel_ like it. She could be selfish and agitated, mistrustful of Dante and Lady, and generally slightly unpleasant to be around. It wasn't _constant_, but after a few months of her sudden change of disposition—particularly after three peaceful, fun years of working and living together—Trish's edginess was taxing.

One day when the attitude was a little much to bear, Lady joked that Trish must have been going through puberty. The resulting outburst ended with Lady storming off into her room, Trish steaming on the couch, and Dante standing in front of her and shaking his head.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked her, crossing his arms. He wasn't surprised that he and not Lady was the one who was finally having a talk with the blonde. Lady had once admitted that she was pretty sure she would just berate Trish the entire time; Dante, when he wasn't being resorting to being flippant, could be very patient, albeit still a bit arrogant. For that reason, and because Trish had met him before meeting her, they had agreed that it would perhaps be better for Dante to talk things out with her and see what was wrong.

"Yes," Trish told him bluntly. "She started it."

Dante definitely felt like he was talking to a kid and not to an adult demon, and suppressed the urge to sigh, roll his eyes, or some combination thereof. "'Wishful thinking,' Trish?" he quoted. "'You just wish you'd been a normal kid?'"

"'Normal teen,'" Trish corrected, but already the fire was seeping out of her voice. She looked—uncharacteristically—a little bit defeated. "I screwed up."

"To say the least, yeah," he agreed. A part of him wanted to smile at the fact that Trish hadn't put up much of a fight and had _finally_ admitted to doing something wrong, but he didn't want to bask in the glow of her guilt.

"I've _been_ screwing up," she continued, leaning back into the couch and clasping her hands in her lap. She seemed uncomfortable, speaking as if the words themselves surprised her by coming out of her mouth, much less occurring to her in the first place. "I'm ... sorry."

Here, Dante did let a small smile slip out, but it was a smile of relief so he figured he'd let it slide. "Now tell that to Lady," he instructed, casually unfolding his arms. He thought, briefly, of the brunette sitting in her room and staring at the wall, playing with the pendant around her neck—something that she tended to do when something was bothering her. "She deserves to hear it more than I do."

Trish didn't say anything—something _she_ tended to do when something was bothering her. After a beat, she finally said: "I'm leaving in a week."

"What?" he asked, staring at her incredulously. "That's ... what?"

"I should have told you before," Trish admitted, sitting up slightly, "but I kind of hoped I would change my mind before then. I don't ... _want_ to leave exactly." She shook her head. "And yet I do."

"Why?" Dante asked, probably painting an impressive picture of astonishment. He had kind of assumed that Trish had settled down after returning from her wanderings. Yet again she had always been a bit fickle, relishing in the opportunities to run off on her own and work undercover, as she had in Fortuna and many other circumstances. Her favorite part of the killing was always the hunt, as she had told him once, and the more challenging the hunt the better. There was something in Trish's nature that, no matter how direct she could be, would always enjoy doing things in an underhanded way; likewise, despite her loyalty towards her friends, would always take a moment to consider whether or not helping them would best suit her more selfish needs. He obviously held none of that against her—no one was perfect, after all—but he hadn't expected that particular bomb to drop again.

"I don't know, I'm _antsy_. I'm sure you've noticed," she threw in, smiling wryly as Dante snorted. "I know we're hunting, but the walk-in-and-kill missions are driving me insane. I can't rely on travel missions anymore to let me escape from the routine, I actually ... need to escape for real." She looked aside and ran a hand through her hair. "I know I'm running. And I don't want to leave you guys behind but it's something that I need to do. I like you, but I need my space."

"I'm guessing you don't just mean a few hours in the day when we're not allowed to come talk to you, right?" Dante instinctively joked.

"Yeah." She laughed in what would have been embarrassment if Trish were capable of expressing such an emotion—it was more to validate his attempt to diffuse the tension that had been settling over them. "I don't know if it makes much sense, but it's what I need. It's just ... wanderlust." She sighed tiredly. "And I don't know when I'll be back."

"It's cool, Trish," Dante said, nodding. "Take as much time as you need, and then get your ass back here."

"I promise," Trish responded, smiling sincerely. Whoever this sincere Trish was, he definitely liked her, though he would always prefer the brusque one that he had known for about thirteen years now.

"You should go tell Lady," he added. While the other woman would definitely be sad to see her friend leave, but would, at the very least, be satisfied and relieved by the explanation for the blonde's recent attitude.

Trish stood, stretched slightly, and shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm going to go for a quick walk. I think we both need to cool down a bit first. I'll tell her everything when I get back in a little bit."

While Dante knew that Trish wasn't about to skip town or anything, he still frowned as he watched her head towards the door. "Well, should I tell her anything?" he asked, crossing his arms. "She deserves to know."

The blonde paused next to the door, hand moving to rest on the wood. "You know what? Tell her everything. Tell her that I'm going for a walk and that she and I will talk when I get back, but tell her everything yourself first."

"Why?" What was the woman pulling? She had that knowing smile on her face again—the one that said: "I know exactly what will happen but I'm not going to tell you, so why don't you just try it out for yourself?" Curse the woman; she was a schemer.

"Just ... trust me, okay? As hard as that may sometimes be." She opened the door and, laughing as she passed through the threshold, added: "I was worried about leaving the two of you alone, but I think you'll be okay without me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dante called out after her, but the door closed behind her and the question remained unanswered.

Well. That was cryptic.

He didn't move for a moment, dreading what he had to do next, but ... well, it was inevitable. It was a bit unfair that _he_ would be the one to break the news to Lady, particularly when she was already in a foul mood, but it had to happen. Besides, he had a bit of experience cleaning up some of Trish's messes in the wake of her less successful plans—loath as she was to admit it, the demon wasn't _always_ right. In fact, more often than not, she boasted about being always right regardless, at which point he and Lady would share a skeptical look.

Dante smiled. He had always imagined that Lady and Trish were friends so that they could gang up against him and get their way, but after living with each other for a while they had developed a language of glances with which to communicate outside of Trish's knowledge. Granted, he had that with Trish for when Lady was being difficult as well and knew that Trish and Lady still maintained that "Dante is an idiot" camaraderie upon which they had based their early friendship, but it was different knowing that he had such a connection with Lady. It made him feel as though he were privy to a wealth of information that she had previously denied him, even though they had already developed such a bond when they had spent three or so years working together in their twenties—knowing that the bond had not only lasted all those years, but also grown and flourished in the presence of while still excluding a consistent third party was strangely comforting.

He took a moment to pick up two of the three beers that had been discarded on his desk earlier before Lady and Trish had had their spat and made his way towards the back, where Lady had her room. There were actually only two bedrooms in Devil May Cry, Lady's current room actually having been an old storage room that he barely used—he had a second one where he kept his weapons and some of his trophies, so he was willing to condense everything into one room and convert this room into another bedroom. It had a window, at least, so Lady was more than fine with it.

When he reached her bedroom door, he heard no sounds coming from inside except for, faintly, her breathing. He again imagined that she was sitting on her bed, staring ahead of her, playing with her pendant and thinking; Lady was the kind of person who expressed her frustration through a wealth of secondary activity, so for her to be doing next to nothing meant that something was really bothering her. And he knew that Trish's words _were_ bothering her: it was something that would have bothered him a lot as well, and he knew that the shift in Lady's life had arguably been worse. Granted, he had gone from living in a happy family to homeless, but as she had once told him, Lady had assumed a lot of responsibility at a young age all the while coping with the idea that demons were real and that her father was siding with them. He wasn't sure he would ever understand what that must have been like.

Dante knocked on the door—five knocks, _his_ knock, she would realize. It took her a moment, but she eventually answered: "Come in," her voice quiet but still firm.

He cracked open the door and, unsurprisingly, saw Lady sitting on her bed and playing with her necklace, but staring not at the wall but at him. Her expression was blank, but he could still read hurt in her features, particularly the shadows around her eyes. She seemed ... _older_ somehow—not that she was old; she wasn't young either, but she certainly wasn't _old_. It was just that, when she looked as tired as she did, she betrayed the fact that she was pushing forty and that she wasn't as young as she seemed. The rest of the time she looked great for her age—having a younger face and staying in such good shape for her job had truly worked to her advantage—but she wasn't young anymore.

He suddenly felt guilty: he didn't want to be thinking of Lady as getting older. He had once thought, when he met her in the Tower, that she would probably die young, cut down by a scythe from a Pride in some dark alley where nobody could come find her and bring her to a hospital. It had been a gruesome mental image, but a realistic one, though he had always hoped that she might make it until she was older. Now she was in her prime—maybe the tail end of her prime at the latest, but with the shape she was in she could certainly continue fighting demons for at least another decade. This was a good thing, because he wasn't prepared to deal with the idea of Lady having to retire, despite Trish's occasional reminders.

"Well?" Lady snapped, staring at him in expectation.

"Oh," Dante responded, a little taken aback by Lady's attitude but aware of the fact that he had been spacing out. "Your beer."

"Thanks," she said after a second, standing up to grab it from his outstretched hand. She took a quick sip of the beer, which was starting to go a bit warm but still cool enough to be good, and added with an apologetic look: "Sorry about that. I've had better afternoons."

Dante couldn't mask the smirk that broke across his face. "_Two_ apologies in one day? I'm on a roll or something," he joked, even though it was true. The one downside to living with two powerful women was how little they would admit they were wrong.

Lady blinked in surprise. "Wait, two? She _apologized_?"

"Yeah," he answered, smirk turning into a smile as Lady began smiling herself. "For the past few months. She says she's sorry about what happened, too." He took a sip of beer and sat down on Lady's bed, knowing that she wouldn't _really_ mind. She made a point to glare—a quick formality—before joining him. "She'll tell you herself too when she gets back from her walk. She wants to clear her head."

"Okay," Lady said, nodding. "I can live with that. Good. As long as this is settled."

Dante knew that he would have to break the news to Lady next, but dreaded doing so—he kind of knew what Trish had felt like when she avoided telling them that she planned on leaving for who know how long. Instead, he took a sip of beer, hoping to delay the inevitable.

"Something's bothering you," Lady said, so blunt that it was almost accusing. "What is it?"

Dante laughed mirthlessly into his beer and removed the bottle from his lips. "You know me too well."

"Normally you'd be gloating at this point, so you must be hiding something," Lady pointed out, scooting up on the mattress so she could lean against he wall. "Spill. No secrets between the three of us."

He shot her a quick look before looking back down at the beer bottle. "She's leaving next week," he said, picking at the condensation-soaked label. When Lady didn't answer, he glanced back at her, only to find that she was staring back at him with a blank look on her face. "She just told me. Apparently she's been going a little crazy and needs to go off on her own for a while. She'll come back, but she's not sure when."

"That ... explains it," Lady confirmed, her face still slightly blank but showing signs of disappointment. "Well, whatever she thinks is best, I'll support her."

"You okay?" Dante impulsively asked, also scooting back on the mattress to join her against the wall. He realized that his free hand was close to hers, but resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.

Lady laughed momentarily and stared straight forward. "It just makes me think," she explained. "Which one of us to go crazy and leave next?"

Dante was almost hurt by the allegation that they would drive each other crazy, but knew that she had said it, in part, to lighten the tension. "Well, I don't know about you, but I live here. I don't plan on leaving," he joked in response.

"I live here _too_, Dante," she pointed out. "I don't plan on leaving either."

Pleased by her answer, he raised his beer bottle and shot her a meaningful smirk. Lady smiled back and touched her bottle to his with a satisfying clink.

* * *

While Dante had been very sad to see Trish go, at the same time he was grateful for the opportunity to spend time exclusively with Lady.

To be honest, he wasn't even sure what that meant anymore. Her rejection was about twelve years old now, the pain having long since faded away and replaced by a need to simply continue getting closer and closer to Lady—to what end, he wasn't sure. While his desire to be her friend had certainly been born from his feelings for her, he had stopped imagining the two of them getting together, the occasional fantasy excluded.

Trish had phrased it very well when she had told him, at one point, that any relationship between him and Lady was a missed opportunity. Despite the fact that something might have worked between them, if it didn't back then, then it probably never would. It didn't matter how close they were, how well they could read each other, how openly and often they talked about anything and everything, how they never seemed to be bored of each other—those were all things that really good friends did. He and Trish did that, but were they going to start dating? Fuck no. Just because Dante saw Lady as incredibly beautiful and still wondered what it would have been like if they had gotten together, it didn't mean that anything was going to happen between them. That ship had sailed, despite the twinge of bitterness that had stuck with him.

Perhaps Lady had sensed that his intentions had changed and was letting him get closer to her as a result. She was definitely a lot more at ease around him than she had been before they had started working together, and in the aftermath of Trish leaving she had only grown closer. To be honest, he imagined that it had something to do with the fact that they were both a bit older: while they still had strong, stubborn personalities, neither of them were as hotheaded as they had been in their twenties. Their personalities complemented each other more now, playfully chiding each other in moments of arrogance or indulgence. It just ... worked. He didn't know how else to put it. They worked well together, both as friends and as partners. She seemed happy, and this made him happy.

One day less than two years after Trish had left, when Lady stepped out to make a phone call, Dante got a call about a weird job: some girl needed help stealing some relic out of a museum.

"Listen, kid, I'm a demon hunter, not a thief," he said, massaging his forehead. Shit but they got some strange calls nowadays. "Call someone else."

"Wait, you do not understand!" the girl protested—she spoke strangely, and had an accent that he couldn't identify. European or something. "I cannot tell you much, but you're the only one who can help me, Son of Sparda."

This piqued his interest. Despite his fame as the son of Sparda within certain circles, the average caller wouldn't be privy to that kind of information and know him only as a reliable demon hunter. Those who knew his heritage would have found out for one of two reasons: either they wanted to stop someone who was trying to exploit Sparda or some other demon's power, or they wanted revenge against the Sparda bloodline for his father's actions over two millennia ago—or some combination thereof. Whoever this girl was, it was worth listening to her.

"There is a coin called 'The Medaglia' at the Museum of Archaeology in New York," she continued. "We need to steal it before the man who wants to use it for ill does."

"Who says _you_ aren't going to use it for your own purposes?" Dante asked suspiciously, leaning forward in his seat as if to intimidate the girl, despite the fact that she wasn't there.

"Please, I am only a protector," she explained, sighing. "If you are interested, please meet me at the museum tomorrow at midnight. I will tell you more there."

"We'll see," Dante said, frowning. He didn't like information being withheld like this, but if this girl was genuine then he understood why. "What's your name, kid?"

"My name is Lucia," the girl responded. "I hope to see you in a day's time, Son of Sparda." And with that, she hung up.

Dante was eager to tell Lady about this mission so she could help him determine whether or not it was legitimate, but Lady was taking a long time with her phone call. In the time that he waited, another call came in for a job for that night: just a few harpy-like demons that hung around a construction site at night. Nothing too complicated.

Lady finally returned in the evening, three hours after she had left in the first place, looking a little bit more haggard than she had when she left. "Sorry about that," she said, putting her phone and sunglasses on the desk, lying down on the sofa, and shutting her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Dante asked, watching as she breathed and massaged her temples. When she didn't immediately respond, he figured he would change the subject and wait for her to tell him what was bothering her. "We got two jobs when you were out."

"Really?" Lady asked, her right eye peeking open to look at him. "What and when?"

"One's tonight, something like harpies at the construction site on Sherman and Greenwood," Dante reported. "They'll contact us about payment when the demons are dead."

"Fair enough. And the other?"

"Some girl named Lucia wants us—or maybe just me, I don't know—to help her steal this coin from a museum tomorrow night," he explained. As he spoke, Lady straightened on the sofa to watch him more carefully.

"Which museum?" Lady asked.

"Museum of Archaeology."

"New York? That's kind of far," she mused, relaxing against the back of the sofa. "Travel mission, then. Trish might have liked it."

The last time they had heard from Trish, she had promised to come home soon. That had been several months ago. They knew she was safe—it was Trish, after all—but still wondered where the other woman was and when she would actually return.

"The girl didn't say much about the mission, but apparently someone else is after the coin," Dante finished, trying not to think about Trish. "Does it sound legit to you? She called me Son of Sparda."

Lady paused for a moment in consideration. "It's worth checking out, anyway. It's definitely not a prank," she answered, resting her chin in her hand. "Either the girl is trying to stop someone who's after demonic power, or _she's_ the one after the demonic power, in which case you'll want to be near her so you can stop her." She sighed, moving her hand from her chin to her neck to give herself a one-handed massage. "Either way you'll have to go without me."

"Why?" Dante asked, surprised. Lady almost _never_ turned down missions, and this definitely wasn't the type of mission she would opt out of. "I don't know if she knew we worked together when she asked for my help, but if she's for real then she'll like all the help she can get. If she protests, then we'll know something's up."

"It's not that," Lady explained, standing up to sit on the edge of the desk, closer to him. "I got a call from the law firm that managed the sale of my family's old estate. Apparently the current owners just found some kind of ... secret room where my father did his research. They want me there to help clean it out." She sighed. "I'm leaving tomorrow, and will be there for at least a few days."

Despite being casually perched on the desk, Lady looked incredibly tense, her eyes flashing with memories. Had she even _been_ in her house since her mother's death? He wasn't sure, but he knew that he certainly wouldn't want to return to his childhood home either, even after all these years. He instinctively reached for the hand that was resting on the desk and gently held it in an attempt to show his support—Lady, surprisingly, didn't pull her hand away, but squeezed back.

"I'll go with you," Dante offered. She needed someone there with her when she was dealing with the past like that, and he wanted to be there for her.

However, Lady shook her head. "No, _you_ have to go to the Museum of Archaeology," she told him. "I can handle it. The job's more important."

Loath as he was to agree with her, she was right: the job was more important, if there was a chance that someone was going after demonic power. He would have preferred to accompany her, but he had his responsibility. "I'll tell you what," Dante said, deciding that if he was going to go on the mission he might as well have a bit of fun first. Letting go of her hand to pull a coin out of his pocket, he said: "Heads I go to the Museum of Archaeology; tails I go with you."

"Dante, this isn't something to joke about," Lady protested. "You're going—"

"Whoa!" he cried, tossing the coin up into the air. Lady stopped talking and watched as he caught the coin. Opening up his palm, he declared: "Heads. Looks like I'm going to the museum."

"Dante," Lady said very simply, looking a little disappointed in him.

"Oh, don't get mad, I was going to the museum anyway," he assuaged her, laughing and handing her the coin. "Look. Both sides are the same."

"Where did you get this thing?" Lady smirked despite herself, turning the coin over to look at both sides. "It kind of looks like Trish."

"I saw it at that antique shop you dragged me into the other day," he explained, watching her eyes as she scrutinized the coin. "They didn't have any of girls with short hair holding rocket launchers, so I settled for this one."

"Cute," Lady deadpanned, tossing the coin back his way. "Come on. We have a job to do." She slid off of the desk and, heading back into her room to grab her guns and Kalina Ann, added: "Let's have some fun before we both skip town."

* * *

"Son of a _bitch_," Lady groaned, rubbing the back of her head from where she sat against a support beam.

"You okay?" Dante asked, coming up next to her.

"Are those things _dead_?" she asked, and sighing when he nodded. "Then I am _now_."

"It's not your fault," he casually said as he watched her massage the back of her head. "You were caught off-guard when that one dove at you. It also wasn't your fault that the pillar was in your way—"

"I have bullets that I didn't use on those harpies. Don't make me use them on you," Lady threatened, glaring up at him darkly as she continued to massage the back of her head. "_Fuck_," she added under her breath, wincing slightly.

"Do you need any help?" Dante asked, more serious this time, kneeling down to her level. "I'll drive us home, and then we'll pick up your bike in the morning so you can head out."

"Yeah, that sounds good," Lady admitted. "I'll be okay, but I'm dizzy as hell right now."

"Well, hold on, let's flip for it," he joked, but still held out his hand to help her stand. He pulled her up, and then offered his arm for her to hold onto on the way back.

"You know, using the coin like that suits you," she said, grabbing onto his arm as they walked in the direction of where they had parked.

"Really?" Dante asked, surprised. He hadn't really expected to say anything like that.

"Yeah," she continued. "That way you can still come off as an asshole, even when you're about to do the right thing."

He snorted. "Oh, come on, you don't actually think I'm an asshole, do you?"

"Yes?" Lady joked, and laughed when Dante mock-glared at her. "No, I don't. You're—" She hesitated. "You're not an asshole, don't worry."

"Good to know," he responded, smiling when she held onto his arm a little tighter. "You don't need to go to a hospital, do you?"

"What? No. I'll get a bump, but it's not bad at all. I just don't want to drive myself off the road because I'm dizzy, you know?" Lady laughed again, but this time it was less humorous. "I'm just getting too old for this, that's all."

"No, you aren't," Dante very quickly and almost sharply said. Maybe it was too harsh, but ... no, she couldn't be too old: she was still in good shape and had sharp wits. It was just an off night; that was all. He had them too sometimes, and his off nights usually involved being impaled on Rebellion, so she had it good.

Lady didn't answer, most likely still agonizing over her carelessness.

Either way, they reached the spot where they had both parked, and Lady let go of his arm to get her helmet from her bike. Dante immediately missed the feeling of her arm locked with his and hoped that his sharp reaction hadn't put her off at all. This little snafu of a job aside, he wanted to spend a nice evening with her before they parted ways for at least a few days.

As he climbed onto his bike he realized that the last time he had given Lady a ride on his bike was when he was twenty-five, still overconfident and convinced that the way to Lady's heart would be short. They hadn't ridden together since then simply because the need hadn't come up—twenty years later, he was getting another chance. Back then she had put up a fight over him giving her a ride home, but this time she hadn't so much as blinked at his offer.

This time, when she climbed on behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist like she was supposed to, her grip was more desperate.

* * *

"Are you feeling better?" Dante asked Lady as they walked into the shop.

"Yeah," she answered, smiling lightly as removed Kalina Ann from where it rested on her back, leaning it against the wall before removing all but one of her guns from their holsters to replace them on a small table near the sofa. "I definitely feel the bruise forming, but I'm not dizzy anymore, so it's all good. I'll be fine to leave in the morning."

"Good," Dante said, walking over to his desk and pulling a bottle of tequila from the drawer. "Now how about that fun we talked about?"

To his surprise, Lady shook her head. "I'm ... actually kind of tired. It's not my head," she quickly added, "I promise. I'm just not up for staying up and drinking, so I'm going to call it a night."

With that, she turned and headed down the hallway towards her bedroom. Dante remained in his seat, flabbergasted, before looking over at the clock on the wall and checking the time.

It was only 10 PM.

He practically leapt out of his chair, still desperately clutching the bottle of tequila as he ran towards her bedroom. Bursting through the door and pointing at her with the hand that held the tequila, he demanded: "What's this all about?"

Lady rolled her eyes, apparently having hoped that she would just be able to go to bed without any arguments. She was holding onto her plain black travel bag, dropping it on the bed in annoyance. "I'm tired, I feel like an idiot, and—"

"Why do you feel like an idiot, because you got hurt?" Dante pressed. "You never used to get upset like this when you got injured before, and I've seen you walk out of much worse with your head held high."

"I'm not upset," Lady muttered.

"Then what?" When she didn't answer, Dante put the bottle of tequila on the dresser by her door and shut it behind him—for what purpose he wasn't sure, since there was nobody else in the building to overhear their conversation. "Look, I'm not gonna drop this."

"There's nothing to talk about," she insisted, turning to her closet to pull out a few pairs of dark pants that she seldom wore unless she needed to do something more formal, and packing them in her bag.

Dante exhaled roughly. She was being impossibly stubborn, and he wasn't sure how to handle it. None of his usual techniques would work today: Trish wasn't there to send in as backup, and he would give Lady time to cool down if they _had_ such time to waste. But Lady was leaving for her old home tomorrow morning, and he wanted to figure out what had gotten her into such a funk _now_ at least so that he knew that she was leaving without holding any bitterness, but also so that she could address the issues surrounding her father's work without worrying about anything else.

Unfortunately, as he had learned over the years, the only way to get her talking was to push her buttons, and he knew a few topics of conversation that could work her up.

"You're not too old for this, if that's what's bothering you," Dante said, leaning against the door behind him. Seeing Lady freeze in her movements, he knew that he was on, or at least near, the right track, and pressed on: "It's not like you're losing your touch or anything. You just—"

"Stop," she interrupted, turning to face him and tossing the button-downs she had been holding onto the bed, missing her travel bag by a foot. Her face was cold and serious, and more than a little bit hurt. "Stop _right now_. You have no idea what you're talking about."

Dante frowned, surprised by the fact that he was getting slightly offended. "What? What don't I know? Please, Lady, tell me."

Lady laughed sardonically. "You're _lucky_," she said accusingly. "You're a half-demon and nearly _immortal_, so you don't know what it's like to walk into a room full of demons and ask yourself if you're going to make it out alive."

"That's bullshit," he contended, raising his voice a little. "My healing ability is _not_ perfect, and with enough strain I could die as easily as you."

"Oh, _sorry_, how many Vergils do you need to stab you before you finally bleed out?" Lady put her hands on her hips—obviously aware of how low of a blow it was to bring up his brother, but too angry to care—and glared at him even more intensely. "You want to know what I'm feeling right now? I'm feeling aches and pains from injuries that I'd once ignored. I've always had some close calls, and while it was so easy then to prance out of them and think of myself as untouchable, it's not so easy anymore. I'm slower than I used to be, my aim's not as sharp, I get tired more easily—not that you'd notice, because you're_ always_ in peak physical condition. You kind of _need_ that to not get killed."

"So you get knocked aside by a demon _once_ tonight—most people couldn't survive the shit you've been through, and now you're railing on me for being in better shape than you? What are you, _jealous_?" Dante accused. "That's _rich_."

"_Don't_ belittle me, Dante," Lady spat. "It's more complicated than that."

"You're right, it is!" he insisted. "You know something? Yeah, having demonic blood is great when I don't want to die during a mission, but you want to know what else's it's great for? Being the _only_ survivor." Lady didn't say anything when he paused for a breath, so he continued: "Everyone I knew as a kid died—"

"So did—" Lady started, but he cut her off again.

"No, you _don't _know," he continued, raising his voice a little more. "You survived because you weren't there—I _was_ there, and did that change anything? No. I woke up, soaked in my own blood but without any scratches, my _mother_ was dead, _Vergil_ was gone, and my _father_ had long since disappeared to who the _fuck_ knows where, and where did that leave me?" He ran a hand through his hair so hard that he nearly ripped out some strands. "I _know_ I'm going to outlast everyone except Trish, and I would fucking _kill_ to be able to have the luxury of death."

"Yeah? You weren't the only one in _that_ boat, Dante!" Lady shouted. "It would have been _great_ to die along with my mother, but if I had then I never would have had the chance to kill my father. So yeah I had the _option_ if I fucking _felt_ like it, but I didn't really have a _choice_." He was aware of the tears welling up in her eyes—he felt like shit for starting this fight with her the day before she had to face those memories again, but maybe this was exactly what she needed to get off of her chest.

It was funny, what they had just argued about: time, death—both things that were issues for them in their own distinct ways. For him, time dragged on slowly, never-ending, events like islands in a sea of monotony and death a distant shore. For her, everything must have moved quickly and quietly, with death's promise looming in the near-distance and ready to strike. She fought to stay alive and he fought because he couldn't die, and they each envied the other's fortune.

Funny how, despite those differences in opinion and perspective, they understood each other so well.

He felt his own face soften, and while his pulse was still racing, his blood didn't feel as hot as it had been moments ago. "I never had that choice, and I never will," Dante said, this time a lot calmer. "So I'm going to watch everything around me die and I won't be able to do anything about it. I don't even get to be as lucky as my father."

Lady frowned, but it was more in confusion. She seemed less angry than she had been before—she almost seemed a little guilty herself. "How was your father lucky?" she asked. Her right hand twitched as if she wanted to reach out for him, but she didn't move it. Instead she stood, staring up at him.

Dante smiled nostalgically, staring at the wall in front of him before letting his eyes drift back down to Lady. "I think he finally died," Dante admitted, "or he's as good as dead, anyway. Wherever he is, he never had to watch my mother die."

"He also never had to watch her grow old," Lady added, sighing. "He might have felt differently if he had stayed as beautiful as ever while she had just withered away." She averted her eyes, staring at the other corner of her room so as not to stare at him. "It's not as hard to watch us die when we're old and useless and you're still young and be—" She stopped speaking, choosing not to finish her thought.

The air changed, he realized, as something unspoken—that had, all things considered, remained unspoken—suddenly came to attention. Lady looked surprisingly meek, and for a moment he wondered if she was channeling the fifteen-year-old Mary who had grown up too fast and become Lady before her time. It was strangely refreshing, and Dante saw a sense of completeness in her stiffly embarrassed posture. Everything seemed to have come full circle for them: just as he had seen the grown woman in the girl, he was starting to see the girl in the grown woman, a strange effect that transcended their earlier discussion of aging. It was as if no time had passed at all between their first meeting and now.

"That's not how it works," Dante said, or maybe promised, as he lifted his hands to rest on her shoulders.

"Oh?" she asked, recovering, turning back to scrutinize him. A few fine lines appeared on what otherwise would have been smooth skin, but he decided that it didn't matter. The crease between her brows didn't change how fierce of a glare she was giving him, and laugh lines only made her smiles more brilliant. Besides, he didn't expect something flawless because he knew that he wasn't flawless either, despite joking otherwise. "How does it work, then?"

He felt her hand reach up and touch his arm, and he felt himself smile. "You flip a coin," he answered.

She laughed lightly, eyes still locked with his. "I didn't realize we were betting on anything," she pointed out.

"Just call it," he instructed, removing one of his hands from her shoulder to reach for the trick coin in his pocket. "Heads or tails?"

"Heads," she said certainly, her hand sliding farther up his arm until it hooked behind his neck, brushing the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Heads it is, then." He knew his smile had just gotten wider and probably looked really silly, but he had stopped caring when she had started twirling her fingers into his hair, unintentionally—or maybe intentionally, he wasn't even sure anymore—pulling herself closer. He wanted to close his eyes and indulge in the rather pleasurable sensation, but her eyes were locked with his and he didn't want to break their moment. Strangely enough, her eyes was still a little bit guarded, as if she were trying to maintain one more defense against what he hadn't realized she wanted. More than ever he wanted to know: how long had this been going on? But he knew he would have to save the questions for later; this was the moment he had been waiting for.

"Watch me carefully," he instructed, and with that, he tossed the coin up into the air. Her eyes flitted up, watching as the coin careened up towards the ceiling; before it could start its journey back down, he announced: "Heads. You win."

And kissed her.

The coin must have fallen somewhere near them, but he wasn't exactly paying attention. All he could feel was Lady: her lips moving against his, her skin brushing against his, and her chest pressed against his—all in tandem, fitting together as if they had never been apart. Dante felt desperate and calm—desperate because he had waited so long, and calm because he suddenly felt as thought he had all the time in the world. Yet all he wanted to do was press forward, close the space between them, make up for lost time and fill the rest of it with their bodies.

Lady's leg had somehow nestled its way between his as the gaps between them tightened even further, hands running down arms and sides, over face, threaded between strands of black and white hair. The kiss naturally deepened when there was no other space between them to fill, their tongues battling for dominance as if they were fighting with words. Vaguely, Dante wondered when the last time she had done this was—because at her age, and the way she moved her tongue, she certainly had —but, given the fact that he couldn't currently answer the question for himself anyway, there was no point in even musing over the issue. Instead, he took a few steps back, legs hitting her bed and causing him to fall back—despite the fact that he hadn't even remembered being in front of the bed in the first place.

Lady followed him onto the bed, her body naturally adjusting to straddle his hips as she dipped down to meet his mouth. Her hands cupped his head, fingers once again weaving through his hair and massaging the scalp as his own arms reached around her body to run along her spine. As his fingers brushed past her lower back she let out a moan and tugged on his hair, to which he responded by bucking his hips forward slightly.

With that, Lady pulled up, freeing one hand from his hair to wipe back her bangs. "You're ... hard," she pointed out, laughing lightly.

"...is something wrong?" Dante responded, feeling a little self-conscious. What, did she think he was _small_? Because he wasn't. He definitely wasn't _small_. No way.

"No," she insisted, though her voice trailed off into thought. "I'm just surprised."

Feeling more than a little threatened at this point, Dante took advantage of Lady's hesitance to flip them over—and more onto the bed—so that he was lying on top of her, between her splayed legs. Her eyes shot back up to meet his, still a little bit surprised but clouded over with lust. "What's so surprising?" he asked, mouth meeting the skin of her neck to trace the arteries. He _sincerely_ hoped that her answer had nothing to do with his performance. No woman had complained before, and this would definitely be a terrible time to break that streak.

"I..." Lady started, her words cutting off abruptly when he found a sensitive spot on her neck and traced it with his tongue. "I don't want this to go too fast," she finally managed to blurt out despite Dante's continued use of his tongue on her neck.

With that, Dante froze, quickly pulling back to stare at her lust-clouded eyes. "What?"

"It's ... _sudden_," she admitted, panting. "And I don't know if it's the right time for ... for _this_." She accented her words by gesturing out with her arms, one hand accidentally brushing against his arm and, somehow, causing a shiver to run down his spine. "Not when we're both about to leave."

Dante frowned. "Are you sure? Couldn't it be just something to look forward to?"

Lady laughed, her voice stronger this time. "Oh, _believe me_, it's something to look forward to," she joked, but the truth written between the lines was enough to boost his ego a little. "But there's so much I need to take care of first, and I kind of want things to be _simpler_ when I'm back there." She reached up and ran her hands back up his sides, smiling at him pruriently. "And then I come back and I get rewarded for a job well done."

"That's true," he agreed, relenting slightly by climbing off of her and lying down next to her instead. Of course he was still pretty hard, but that would subside after a little while—he was happy to just stay next to her for now.

"In case you're wondering, I ... I _do_ want to give us a try," she added. "But I need to sort through that last bit of my life before I can move on to the good things again."

"I understand," Dante said, which he did. "It's fine. We'll both head out tomorrow, and when we're both back, we'll have that fun you talked about earlier."

"What, this wasn't fun enough for you?" Lady teased.

"There's _always_ more fun to be had," he responded with a wink. "Besides, I've waited this long already—a few more days won't kill me."

Lady laughed under her breath, letting the room fill with a comfortable silence. He had so many question that he wanted to ask, but they all were silenced when she asked hers: "Stay here tonight?"

"Yeah," Dante promised, lifting his arm to allow her to get closer. She pressed up against his body, head resting against his shoulder as she draped her arm across his torso. Smiling, he rested his arm against her side and leaned his head closer to hers, pressing a light kiss against her forehead. He felt himself nodding off slightly despite it still being a bit early in the evening, but allowed himself to just shut his eyes and enjoy the feeling of Lady breathing against him.

"Dante?" he heard her ask into his neck.

"Yeah, Lady?" he answered, keeping his eyes closed but allowing his hand to rub her back gently.

"How long _have_ you been waiting?" she continued drowsily.

He figured she probably knew the answer to that question, but wanted to hear it from him anyway. "Oh, I don't know," he started, sighing into his words. "About twenty-six years?"

She didn't immediately answer, and Dante imagined that she must have nodded off. Just as well—he was starting to do the same. As sleep started to catch up with him, he heard her answer:

"Thank you."

Dante smiled and held Lady closer.


	12. III,4: Resolve

Well folks, I'm back. I've been back for a while, but I've been having fun in _Ephemerality _land! If you haven't been checking it out, I suggest that you do: I've been revisiting the events of _PoT_ only from Lady's POV, which is a pretty refreshing change given how much Dante I've written for this. But first, enjoy the last chapter of _PoT_!

Meanwhile, I'm stunned by the fact that I have 10000+ hits. You guys. Freaking. Rock.

Longest one yet, guys. :)

* * *

**The Passage of Time**

Part Three: Longevity

_Chapter 4: Resolve_

The one thing that was good about this entire situation was that it wasn't raining—if he had had to camp out on top of the Museum of Archeology on a cold, rainy New York night, he would have long since stormed away and gone back to the comfort of his office. As it turned out, though, it was a clear, albeit slightly crisp, New York night, so his vigil atop the museum wasn't as unpleasant as it could have been, but just as unwanted.

If he hadn't had to go on this stupid job that was probably some kind of setup, he could have been at home relaxing, or better yet helping Lady sort out her long-deceased father's affairs. But she had remained steadfast in her decision, reminding him whenever he suggested otherwise that he had a _job_ to do, and that the wellbeing of the human race was more important than her personal issues. Dante had almost wanted to joke that her happiness _was_, in fact, more important than the fate of the world. He chose not to for reasons that included, not far from the top of the list, the fact that she might be disconcerted by what she might interpret as the truth hidden under the guise of a joke. The top of the list was obviously the fact that he had to prioritize saving the world over doing anything else, no matter how tempting the alternative.

Dante shuddered slightly, but not from the cold: tempting alternatives were in fact very tempting, _particularly_ when they involved Lady. His mind couldn't help but wander back to the previous night, which he had decided had been his favorite despite the lack of a _happy ending_, as it were. The release of the built-up tension that had lasted over half of his life had been more than satisfying, echoing orgasmic in its own sentimental way.

...okay, admittedly, he was still feeling not-so-metaphorically blue-balled, but that would be resolved when they both returned from their respective pilgrimages. Several times.

Before any more visions could distract him, he saw a figure creep into the room below him, making her way into the light that poured in from the skylight he was peering through. Dante quickly realized that this must have been the Lucia that had called him with the mission—there was something about her that seemed exotic, which seemed to fit the girl's foreign accent. As admittedly uncommon as his naturally white hair and bright blue eyes were, he had never seen anyone with both dark skin and bright red hair—or naturally dark with red hair, anyway, and he wondered if this was also the case for her. But her appearance wasn't as important as her intentions, and so decided to stop fucking spacing out and focus on the task at hand.

The girl walked forward, eyes flitting all over the room despite being focused on the display cases directly in front of her. As she slowed to a stop in front of the display case that contained the medallion that she was apparently attempting to steal, her gaze focused on whatever was displayed above it, that he couldn't see due to the angle. He couldn't see much of her expression either, but he could tell that it was curious, if not relaxed. What, exactly, was the girl thinking?

Very quickly the peaceful moment was interrupted by the arrival of several Puia—those harpies that he and Lady had faced the night before at the construction site, whose name they had looked up early the next morning in an old book of his just so that Lady knew the name of the creatures for which she felt so much spite. The girl turned and, pulling out a pair of ornate-looking, curved blades, attacked the demons with a series of graceful slashes. She made quick work of the demons; however, several more arrived, backing her into the display case that she had been staring into earlier.

If there was one thing that Dante knew about lesser demons, it was that they would never attack a person if they were facilitating the return or reincarnation in the human flesh of a demonic lord and could never be manipulated into doing so. They fickly allied themselves with the closest person who shared their goals, changing leaders as soon as someone stronger showed up and identifying those individuals due to a bizarre sixth sense that they all had. If this Lucia girl really were attempting something, no demon would ever attack her, or agree to stage such a trap—his kind, he had to admit, wasn't always particularly smart or calculating. And when one of the Puia dove towards her in an attempt to either hurt her or steal the medallion, he knew that he needed to act. Whoever or whatever this Lucia girl was, he had to agree with the old adage: the enemy of his enemy was his friend. He owed her this much help at least.

After a quick pause to stretch limbs that had—finally—gotten comfortable in their position on the roof, Dante dove through the glass, drawing Ebony and Ivory and shooting down all of the Puia in or around his path. Lucia watched him with wide, awed eyes, perhaps recognizing the demon hunter that she had called for help the day before and surprised that he had actually shown up, or perhaps a little terrified of his skill. He liked to think it was some combination of the two.

As he landed in a crouch, the Puia that he had shot fell to the ground with unceremonious thuds, and the stolen medallion clattering to the floor and rolling towards his feet. Dante reached down and picked it up, Lucia watching him do so; when he stood upright and began walking towards the other girl, he allowed himself to get a better look at her. Now that he saw her face from a better angle, he decided that the girl was actually rather authentically pretty, although a bit too exotic for his tastes. He was perhaps more surprised by the fact that he thought her a little bit too young, not just in features but also in the wide-eyed, innocent expression that she held. And while he had always had a penchant for older women, he knew exactly why he was looking at this girl differently than he might have only a little earlier, and it only had a little bit to do with the potential jealous reaction of a woman who was still admittedly a bit trigger-happy.

Coming to a stop in front a Lucia, he saw a Puia creeping around behind her, apparently having survived his earlier onslaught. He quickly raised his gun, pretending not to notice the little flinch that she gave as she moved into a combat stance, and shot the demon just as it leapt towards them. Lucia exhaled lightly and returned her knives to their sheathes, apparently more convinced that Dante wasn't about to kill her. Still, he realized that the girl didn't know him well enough to know that, despite being _utterly_ badass, he really was just a chill guy; he could play the apathetic asshole card pretty easily and maintain some power in the situation beyond just the ubiquitous Son of Sparda title that followed him around whether he wanted it to or not.

"You called?" he finally asked, putting his gun back into its holster. He was playing it a lot cooler than he usually would, which felt weird, but ... well, he felt as though he _needed_ to, in this situation. It was, as Lady had so aptly put it the night before, an opportunity for him to pretend that he's an asshole, even when he was about to do the right thing. He didn't want to show his hand so soon—not when he didn't know as much about the mission and situation as he would have liked. The last thing he wanted was this Lucia girl to manipulate him, particularly into doing things that would help whoever was using the medallion for, and he quoted her, "ill."

Yet again, he had reason to believe that this girl was a protector as she had claimed to be over the phone; perhaps he was allowing himself to get fooled, but there was something pure and genuine about her that many, demon and human alike, didn't possess. But because he couldn't truly prove either her innocence _or_ her guilt—although he would admit that he did sense a bit of a demonic aura about her that he couldn't place and that she had not yet admitted to him—he figured that it would be best to just help her for the time being, follow her until he could get his answer and help or stop her accordingly.

With that, Dante tossed the coin her way, which she caught without much flourish. A part of him had wanted to wait to give her the medallion in order to demand information in exchange for his services, but he figured that he didn't want to lay on the asshole thing _too_ thick—after all, she needed to trust him so he could get more information, which couldn't occur if she was too busy fearing him.

To his surprise, Lucia turned and began walking towards the door. What, no explanation or at the very least _payment_? That was _not_ protocol for a job: unless the client specified, "no questions asked," he had every right to know what person or organization he was working for and the reasons behind the need to kill these demons, particularly in this line of work where more information could save more lives. Besides, she had promised to explain everything once he got to the museum, and now she was walking away having reaped the spoils of battle without fulfilling her end of the deal.

Before he could protest, she turned and threw a knife just past his ear at the display case behind him. With a quick glance back, he saw that the knife had stuck into the map that was being illuminated: Dumary Island, in the southwest region of the island.

"'Til next time, Son of Sparda," Lucia said, smiling mischievously as she turned away and quickly strode towards the exit. Dante couldn't help but grin a bit—it was as if she were trying to say: "You want to act like an asshole? Two can play that game." Clearly the girl was working on her poker face.

Still, Dante was left with a lot more questions that he had arrived with, and if he had interpreted her message correctly, she expected him to go to Dumary Island for more information—probably as soon as possible, given the nature of their profession. Suddenly this job seemed like a more complicated and time-consuming than he had originally imagined.

What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Dante had thought of Lady throughout the entire mission. He had imagined her annoyed snarls and sharp cries as he fought through everything, picturing her alongside him, staring forward with a sharp glare before looking back with a sly smile. "Keep up," she had seemed to say. "We'll kick some ass as usual and nothing can stop us."

"And then we'll have some fun," he nearly responded back, before catching himself and focusing on chopping up whatever demon was in front of him.

He also thought of Lady as his coin flipped into the air, deliberating between two identical choices before choosing the one that, while right, a part of him wished he didn't have to do. The world needed saving from Argosax and Arius: one the former king of Hell before his father had sealed him, and the other the corrupt businessman who wanted to assume his powers. Lucia and her mother—or mother-figure, he wasn't even sure anymore—were part of an organization that guarded the island as an extension of a longstanding alliance with Sparda.

It was the same old story, and somehow, he was not at all motivated to do anything. Something was nagging him about the entire story, about his father's involvement in everything... After years of thinking that he had simply _surpassed_ his father, Dante now felt like he was following the man in his footsteps, a thought that, as of late, seemed more foreboding than honorable. After all, his father had disappeared from existence, leaving everything behind—something that he didn't want to emulate.

However, his desire to avoid this mission and return home still conflicted with his indomitable sense of duty, and it was only a matter of time before he stopped pretending he had a way out and started committing himself entirely to the mission. When he found Lucia captured by Arius—and poor girl, he thought, finding out after all this time that she was a creation of the man who was attempting to destroy them all—he had unquestioningly thrown all but one of the Arcanas he and Lucia had collected so as to spare her life.

The thing he had switched out had been his trusted coin, which he had used all this time as a crutch so as not to feel the _full_ weight of responsibility. The act of letting go of his trick coin had been almost metaphorical in his mind: he could no longer pretend that it was a game to him—which it had never been, despite how much he had been skirting around the issue. Even later as his fingers itched for the round circular object in his pocket, he wouldn't find the joke coin that looked like Trish that Lady had laughed at, but the Medaglia, cool and heavy with his commitment to getting the job done. It was done. There was no backing out. He would see this through to the end.

When Arius was finally dead and the portal to Hell was hovering in front of him, he knew for sure that he was going to be the one to get the job done. Of course Lucia, still disgusted by the nature of her creation, had tearfully offered to go in his place, claiming to be expendable. After all, as she had pointed out, once he entered the demon world, he might never be able to return.

He felt himself weaken a little bit at her words, still surprised by how quickly she had lost her will to live. And as selfish as he wanted to be, Lucia simply wasn't strong enough to do the job herself. Besides, Lady would have _killed_ him for letting a young girl go into Hell when he was more than capable of taking care of it himself, even though doing so would spare his life. He knew there was no guarantee of coming back, of seeing Lady and Trish and his shop and Lady and—

So he flipped a coin. Predictably, it landed on heads.

"See you around," Dante said, walking towards the portal. He was grateful for the fact that she didn't continue insisting that she go instead, giving him the option that the coin never really did, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. Not that he would have backed down if she had, but it was nice to know that she seemed to be supporting his decision—or at least agreeing to the terms of his fixed gamble.

"Don't you want to hear the story about Sparda from Matier...?" he heard innocently Lucia ask behind him. Her pleading seemed to be more related to genuine concern for his future, instead of just the self-pitying thing she had been doing before. As if she knew what—who—he had waiting for him back home, and realized that he was a life being cut short instead of one that she would be "saving" with her noble self-sacrifice. It was oddly refreshing, albeit a fruitless attempt at piquing his interest, and therefore his desire to stay in the human world.

"I know," Dante responded, glancing back slightly to speak to the girl behind him. "He did the same thing." Laughing inwardly at the misfortune of his situation, he tossed Lucia his trick coin, seeing her catch it in the same effortless way that she had the Medaglia back in the museum. "Hang on to my coin, Lucia."

Her silence was enough of an acknowledgment of her approval, so he continued straight into the portal. In that instant, he realized, much to his dismay, that he probably wasn't going to come back, or at least not for a while. He had Vergil's example to substantiate his concern, which despite the different circumstances—for instance, the fact that his brother had been younger and exhausted from the events of Temen-ni-gru—seemed to parallel his own. Sure, Dante had defeated Mundus where Vergil could not, but who was to say that he wouldn't fall prey to the Demon World as well?

By the time he defeated Argosax, the portal to the Human World definitely shut behind him, Dante's thoughts returned to Lady. He imagined her—not sporting an adrenaline-pumped, sweat-and-blood-covered grin on a job, or an amused stare as she watched him flip his trick coin, or even the soft, lust-clouded gaze she had graced him with two nights earlier—sitting on the sofa, or perhaps on the corner of the desk or at the desk itself. She was waiting for his return, fingers nervously drumming out fast-paced, staccato rhythms as if the seconds would beat at the same pace and he would arrive sooner.

How long would she wait for him like that? He wasn't even sure how long he would be gone, much less whether he could even he _expect_ her to wait. She wasn't like him—she could never be expected to wait twenty-something years for him to come back from the Demon World like he had for her. She deserved better than a lifetime of anticipation for something that might never end up happening and someone who might never return.

How long had it taken his father to escape Hell? With the vast reaches of Hell stretching out around him in every direction with no end in sight, all he could do was travel deeper and deeper, fight his way past any demon that might have some vendetta against the Son of Sparda until he could find a way out.

Ignoring the icy ache that was growing in his solar plexus, he drove on, gritting his teeth with determination and noting, with some irony, that at least he was free from the coin that made choices _for_ him.

* * *

_I know you can't hear me, but I want you to know that I've been thinking about you every day..._

* * *

The rough pavement dug into his cheek, creating shallow scratches amidst sloppily shaven stubble that would normally have healed mere seconds later, but as exhausted as he was, were left open and stinging. His muscles were too sore to move, his human form tense and unfamiliar after so much time in his demon form. His exterior senses were dull, the sounds, sights, and smells of whatever was around him muted in favor of feeling the pains of his human body and the tangy copper of blood in his mouth.

He supposed that was one thing that was good about his demon form, as rarely as he tended to use it: he healed quickly and felt no pain, where his accelerated healing in his human form could wear out and didn't do much to block the pain. During the length of his time in the demon world—how long, he wasn't sure, but he knew it had been a while—he had chosen to spend in his demonic form, knowing that even his unnatural strength wouldn't be enough to keep him healthy and sane in Hell, where there was no guarantee of food or rest, or any other comfort. He had needed to rely on his demon self to carry him through, sating himself on any scrap he could find without any illusion that it was really a slice of pizza, or that the soil that he slept on, when he slept, was actually his bed. He had also stopped pretending that the little nook that formed from his body as he curled up in a corner for those rare moments of sleep was being filled by a small, warm person.

He wasn't sure when it was that he had stumbled through the hastily-made portal which, to his best knowledge and ability, should have led to the area right around where Temen-ni-gru had once risen and then crumbled to the ground. Clearly there were advantages to living near a spiritual nexus, other than the jobs that came in simply because his city was a gateway to the demon world. But as soon as he had arrived, his body had shifted back to its human form and crumpled beneath him, and despite how much he willed himself to stand he _still _wasn't able to do so. He might have spent seconds willing himself to move, or minutes, or hours; the passage of time had somehow become skewed for him, to the point where he really wasn't sure how long he had been lying there uselessly, or even how long he had spent in Hell in the first place.

He had no idea where he was, when it was, and to an extent even _who_ he was as his sense of self had shut itself off at some point. Son of Sparda, yes; but other than that everything felt kind of foggy and distant, just out of his mind's reach.

At some point he heard a voice before someone turned him over. His eyes, more used to the red darkness of Hell, ached at being forced to face the white daylight, and he somehow willed himself to shut them for a moment, allow himself to adjust to brightness of the human world before opening them again to see who had found him, where he was—anything other than the thundering pain in his head.

* * *

When he opened his eyes a moment later he was in his bedroom back at Devil May Cry.

Dante blinked. Nope, still in his room.

Everything—the mission, being in Hell—it hadn't been a dream, had it? No, it had all felt too real, hurt too much, lasted too long; no part of his imagination could have dreamt up something as fucked up as everything that had happened since the beginning of his job with Lucia. Then how had that happened? How could he have been lying on the pavement somewhere at one point, and then in his bed at home, somewhat pain-free though still weak, what felt like mere seconds later?

Maybe he was dead?

No, it hurt too much.

His muscles were still a little weak, but he felt like he had the strength to move again. He slowly moved himself out of bed, testing his legs briefly before standing fully, not too surprised to find that it was a little hard to stand upright. He left his room with a few careful steps, ignoring the muscular ache, and made his way downstairs, wanting to call out to see if someone else was there but finding that he couldn't quite use his voice.

"Dante," he heard an incredulous voice say. Glancing back up instead of at his feet, he saw Trish at his desk, just standing up and looking like she'd seen a ghost.

"Trish—" he rasped, before coughing at the strain of using his voice again.

Trish was at his side in a flash, grabbing the arm that wasn't on the railing of the stairs and putting it around her shoulders, helping to bear his weight for the last few steps and across the room to the sofa. He promptly collapsed into the cushions, enjoying the familiar feeling and smell of the leather, shutting his eyes in relaxation.

"Don't you fall asleep on me again," he heard Trish say, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw her kneeling next to the sofa, staring at him with a calm but pained face.

Dante smiled despite himself. "You came back," he said, the pain already subsiding enough to spare a few more words.

Trish shook her head and closed her eyes, and it almost seemed as though she were trying to hold back tears. He hadn't seen her like this since the day they met, when she had been crying and begging for his forgiveness, so the effect was more than a little jarring. "Of _course_ I came back, you _idiot_," she hissed, opening her eyes—and sure enough, they seemed a little glassy. "_You're_ the one I worried about. When I found out you had gotten stuck in Hell, I worried that you might not—well, I knew that you'd come _back_, but I worried that it might be too late."

"Too la—" Dante started asking, then shut his mouth to consider her words. "How long have I been gone?"

She sighed, brushing back a few stray locks of her long hair—however long it had been, he was glad to find that Trish still looked the same. Yet again, that was to be expected from a full-blooded, adult demon. "Two years, give or take," she answered. "You've been asleep for three days."

Dante sat in silence, staring at a point beyond Trish's shoulder, unable to meet her gaze. He had spent two years in Hell that had felt like... Well, he wasn't sure how much time he thought he had spent there, but those three days of sleeping had definitely felt like a blinking. It felt unbelievable—not just being home after so long, but the fact that it had _been_ so long in the first place. "It didn't feel like that long," he finally admitted.

"How long did you _think_ it had been?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. "Not two years, and not three days of sleeping."

The conversation lulled, and Dante looked away again to stare at his home. It seemed significantly cleaner than it had been before, but he supposed that it was because he hadn't really been there to make it messy. Otherwise, it all looked the same—the dark wood desk and chair, dart board and billiards table, the various demon heads and Devil Arms that he displayed as trophies to any interested clients... All still there, as if he had never left, only a little better organized.

"You look better already," Trish suddenly said, probably out of desire to fill the silence. "Those three days of sleeping restarted your healing. When ... when I found you in that alley, you were a mess, bloody and bruised and everything. I was starting to worry that you wouldn't wake up."

"I still feel weak," Dante admitted, his body voicing a little ache of agreement. "I guess I need a few more days. As if I haven't been out of commission long enough already."

"For a good cause. Lucia told me all about it." Trish raised her eyebrows, tilted her head, and smiled, as if laughing inwardly at some private joke. "That reminds me, she told me to thank you for everything when you got back."

"You met her?"

"A while back. She was waiting for you when I got back. She's also been stopping by every once in a while, just to see how things are going." Trish smiled lightly. "Nice girl. I think she might have a little crush on you."

"Yeah, I'm _taken_." Dante froze as everything suddenly clicked together. Two years. Two_ years_. "_Lady_," he simply said, not really sure how to phrase the question that was now painfully drumming in his mind, or any of the multitudes of potential questions that accompanied it. How had he forgotten? No, not forgotten, simply been distracted by the flood of information, both new and old, that had been coming his way.

Trish glanced aside, looking guiltier than he had even seen her; but before Dante could open his mouth to demand an explanation, she answered: "She ... took it well." She looked back at him, her eyes a little bit more determined. "So I heard. I wasn't there to witness it, and she won't talk about it. Lucia had to tell me."

_Won't._ The present tense meant that Lady was still alive, and not somehow killed on a job. Dante exhaled, unaware of the fact that he had even been holding his breath in the first place, and with that trapped air came a slew of questions that he now knew how to phrase and _needed_ to ask: "Where is she?" he demanded, sitting up despite his body's protests. "Does she know I'm here? Is she coming?"

Trish shook her head. "I haven't told her yet."

She hadn't— "_Trish_," Dante said in shock and exasperation. "_You_ _didn't tell her_?"

"She doesn't live here anymore. She doesn't even _come_ here anymore," she explained, frowning as she spoke. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back down onto the couch, his body complying for some reason. He must have been more tired than he thought, because ordinarily he would have been pushing to standi and fight back. "And besides, I figured you didn't want her to see you all cut up and weak when you've always made a point to be Mr. Tough-and-Invulnerable Guy in front of her."

"I don't care about that!" he lied, hoping that the loud, challenging tone of his voice would trick her into believing it. As much as he—for lack of an accurate way to explain their relationship or non-relationship or whatever it was—_felt_ for Lady and as open as he tried to be with her, that was the one thing that still made him nervous about her. Back in the day she had rejected him for showing her his weaker side, and while he didn't think she would push him away for being _human_, how would she have reacted if she had seen him lying on a bed, body wrecked and unable to heal itself? Trish was right: he didn't want her to have to see him like that, so it was probably for the best that the blonde demon had kept him hidden like that. Again, Trish seemed to know him better than he knew himself, a fact that was comforting after being gone for two years, not to mention the additional two years that he hadn't seen her when she was traveling.

"And what, you expected her to sit next to your bed, hold your hand, and _cry_ for three days until you woke up?" Trish snapped. "She just spent two years calling in for jobs from her apartment and meeting me outside so she could avoid the office, trying really hard not to ask me if I had heard any news about you, staunchly refusing to be upset because she understood what it was that you had to do, but I'd be _lying_ if I told you that she didn't wish that you had been there when she got home and _not_ Lucia." She laughed mirthlessly, shaking her head. "I'm _sorry_ if the first thing on my mind _wasn't_ to call up Lady and make her see you like that. I wasn't going to do that to _either_ of you."

Once again, Trish had a point, as much as he wished that she hadn't.

"I want to go see her," Dante decided, his voice firm. If his reappearance would bring her some comfort—and he sincerely hoped it would, which was also a bit of an understatement—then he could do that much for her. "_Now_. Where is she?"

He started shifting to sit up, and once again Trish placed her hand on his chest and prevented him from moving. Why the _hell_ did that keep happening? "Absolutely not," she said, removing her hand to cross her arms. "You said it yourself: you still need a few more days to heal."

"I'm _weak_, but it's not like I'm_ dying_ or something," Dante argued.

"And it won't _kill_ you to wait, either," Trish concluded, standing up, brushing off her pants, and smirking at her own wordplay. Yeah, Trish. _Funny_. "You probably haven't eaten much recently. You must be starving. Why don't I order us some pizza?"

As she turned and started making her way over to the desk, asking him something about what topping he wanted, Dante tried to imagine Lady. He assumed that she looked a little bit older by now—although he wasn't sure how much two years would have done for her—but just as stubborn as ever, the same familiar, determined glint in her eyes as she fearlessly stared down some demon that was bigger than herself, that could easily crush her if she ever gave it the chance. Then she was yanking Kalina Ann's bayonet from said demon, wiping her dusty forehead with equally dusty hands before shooting him a smirk that bordered on a smile. She tended to always have a bit of an edge to her smiles, as if she were secretly making fun of everything; as a result, the completely sincere ones were a pleasant rarity. He tried to remember the days that she had graced him with that particular smile, and a part of him felt like his younger self, analyzing her every glance and glare and word for any drop of meaning, whether good or bad. He had to smile at that—at how Lady, just by being herself, made him feel young again, even though he was still theoretically young and would be for some time.

In his mind, her smile shifted again, and this time it was more wistful. She was standing on the side of the road near the construction site, helmet held in one arm, and the other by her side. She was saying something casual, along the lines of: "I'll see you soon," but underneath it was the vulnerability of a girl saying goodbye after her first date, all at once excited and unsure. And yet it _wasn't_ her first date: she was older and more experienced, and it had hardly been a date in the first place. There was no unfamiliarity in their relationship except perhaps on a physical level—well, he couldn't say that for sure, but they _had_ known each other for a very long time. _Very_. And after all of that, she had been forced to wait for him to come home, which from an outsider's perspective might seem a little fair based on how long he had had to wait, but was in reality something that he had never wanted, much less _expected_ her to do. He had the luxury of time—the luxury of pursuing a crazy dream over years and years—because even if he screwed up, he still had all the time in the world to try again. Lady was not quite so fortunate, and for every second that she was kept waiting, the less time that they would have together.

He imagined her waiting, sitting in her new apartment, whatever it must have looked like. Those two years had either passed quickly—as he imagined it probably did for humans when death was always somehow on the horizon—or incredibly slowly—agonizing, hoping each day that Trish would make that phone call and say: "I found him." And now that Trish actually _had_ found him, Lady couldn't know, and would instead continue sitting in her apartment, still drumming her fast-paced, staccato rhythms to make the time that she didn't really have go even faster.

"It's been long enough as it is," he said, more to himself than to Trish, but when the blonde demon glanced at him with a slightly confused look on her face, he figured that he could tell her as well. "She's waited. I've waited. I don't want to wait anymore."

Because he didn't care how much time he had, she didn't have, _whatever_—

"I ... _need_ her," Dante added, willing himself to stand even though it kind of hurt. "_Now_."

* * *

Trish had known when it was best to get out of someone's way, thankfully. She had let Dante go with her motorcycle keys, a threat so that he knew what would happen if he crashed her bike, and a hesitant look that clearly told him: "I don't know if this is such a good idea."

"Relax," he had told her as he settled himself onto her motorcycle. "I know what I'm doing."

In truth, he was only half-sure. For the length of the trip to Lady's new apartment, he had asked himself what it was that he should say when he showed up at Lady's door unannounced. He wasn't sure if he should be funny or sentimental, take her into his arms or give her space, or anything. There must have been a way to make sure that everything ran smoothly, not only for her but for _him_ as well, and whatever it was he had no idea.

Lady's new building was a four-story walkup, and thankfully she was only on the second floor, so the walk wouldn't be as painful as it could have been when he was this burnt out. Still, the first obstacle came not at the stairs, but before, when he realized that he needed to buzz to reach her. Thankfully, the issue wasn't quite as problematic as it had been years earlier, the only _other_ time he had been to her apartment: she had since told him that she went by Lady Finlow, which he had teased her for because she sounded like nobility with an aristocratic name like that. To this day he wasn't sure where Finlow came from, but had to admit that it did suit her.

It didn't take him too long to find the little "L. Finlow, 2A" label next to a tiny black buzzer. And because there was no point in delaying it any longer, he pressed it. The seconds ticked away in his mind, slowly drumming in his temples. He hoped she was home and not elsewhere; maybe Trish should have called to make sure—

"Yes?" Lady's voice sounded tinny as it echoed through the speaker, and he felt his stomach drop. She sounded ... the same, albeit tired. But the same. He found that those little consistencies were the most comforting.

"Lady," he said, very softly. He wondered if she could even hear him through that shitty old intercom when he was speaking so quietly, but he couldn't bring himself to speak as loudly as he usually did. "It's me."

There was a long pause, and Dante wasn't sure if he should _clarify_ who he was because she hadn't understood him, or if she had walked away from the intercom. But before he could decide what to do, he heard the main door buzz and unlock—well, she had heard him, he was allowed in. A good sign indeed.

The flight of stairs had been painful, but soon enough he was staring at the brass 2A on Lady's door, which was gleaming back up at him in anticipation. He knocked: she had a doorbell, but there was something a lot more definitive about knocking, which he liked more than a flimsy little bell. And then he waited again. He would have thought that he would be used to waiting at this point, but somehow that moment before he could hear her footsteps was the longest of his life. Even when he heard her bare feet padding against the floor, they seemed so distant, as if it would take ages for her to actually reach that point right on the other side of the door. The lock clicking open sounded more like distant thunder and the doorknob turned far too slowly for his tastes.

The door opened like a slow, nervous sigh to reveal Lady standing there, dressed in her usual off-white blazer and shorts, her eyes as unreadable as they had been when they were younger. Her hair seemed a little longer, too, and more coiffed than the usual messy layers that had once stuck out at impetuous angles. She looked older—not more aged, but perhaps just more mature, as if she had lived through more.

"You look great," Dante instinctively said, not because it was a standard polite thing to say to a woman, but because he really believed it.

Lady's eyes flitted over his body—he knew he looked a little tired, having seen himself in the mirror before coming over when he shaved properly for the first time in two years—before settling on the floor. Her hand was gripping the open door as if it were a crutch, white-knuckled and shaking slightly. Then she turned in, stepping back into her apartment without closing the door, which he took as an invitation into her apartment.

Shutting the door behind him, Dante allowed himself to look at the place that Lady had been living in. He had briefly seen her old apartment as he helped her move the already packed boxes from that apartment to her new room at Devil May Cry, which he had obviously also seen, but he had never seen how she lived in a space that she didn't have to share. It was modern to the point of being spartan, free of many of the personal effects that usually filled homes and that he knew that Lady had never really owned in the first place. In her bedroom at the office, she had displayed the odd framed picture of her and her mother—her father was never in any of the pictures—and maybe a few other pieces of memorabilia that she had saved through the years, but nothing significant. It was rather basic to say the least, which never really surprised him about her. It wasn't like she had kept many family heirlooms as a teenager, and as an adult had developed distaste for saving old things.

Lady was standing in her white-walled living room, turned away from him with her hands hanging limply by her sides. Dante wanted to do something like move forward and hug her or anything to make her react, but he got the impression that she needed her space and opted to stand back and wait for her to do something. His mind was still reeling at everything that had been thrown at him recently, from his slow recovery to finding out that he had been gone to such a long time, and now that he was staring at Lady for the first time in what apparently had been two years, he wasn't sure how best to handle the situation. Trish had been right about waiting, in that sense: had he given himself more time to heal his mind would have been more rested and capable. But there had been no point in dragging out this moment any longer, so despite how much his body was screaming at him to collapse on the brown sofa to his right and sleep for another day, he remained standing, scrutinizing Lady's back for any hint of what he was supposed to do next.

When she continued standing still as a statue, he decided to ask: "How have you been?" A simple enough question to the point of being trite, but he wanted to get the conversation flowing at the very least.

This seemed to make her react, and she whipped her head around to face him. "'How have you _been_?'" she demanded, voice venomous. "You disappear for two years, and all you can say to me is '_How have you been_?'"

Dante nearly winced at the sudden flare of temper, but restrained himself. He also wanted to point out that it wasn't the _first_ thing he had said, but didn't want to work her up any more. He had long since learned that it was a bad idea. "I _had_ to go," he instead said. "You know that."

"I _know_ you did, I just..." Lady trailed off, anger diffusing slightly as she glanced off to the side. "It was the right thing to do, but I'm still so _angry_ about this, angry that you weren't there when I got home or didn't come back when I waited—and believe me, I _waited_ for you—"

"I didn't expect you to," Dante interrupted. "Hoped that you would, yeah, but I didn't want you to spend your life waiting for me when I wasn't sure when I'd be back." He walked forward, watching her body grow tenser with each step closer to her. "I'm glad that you did."

"I should have just moved on," she said, fixing her gaze on his chest when he stopped directly in front of her. "I kept telling myself to, but I couldn't, and I want to be angry, but..." Her eyes flitted up to meet his, and he could see a lot of doubt flickering in them, as well as the barest hints of glassiness. He was surprised that she was being so transparent today—maybe she was too exhausted to put up the usual emotional barrier that. Or maybe she had already started trying to be more open with him, only he had never gotten the time to recognize that it was her new way of approaching their relationship. "I _can't_. I want to be, and I can't seem to do it properly."

"I'm sorry about that," he apologized, placing his hand on her shoulder and nearly smiling when she didn't tense up like she used to when he did that. It made him feel like they _were_ just going to start up where they left off last time—well, maybe not _exactly_ where they had left off because he felt _way_ too tired to keep it up, but close enough.

He felt guilty about the fact that he hadn't thought about her much when he had been away, especially when he was starting to assume that she had kept him on her mind for much of the two years. It had just been easier not trying to picture all of the comforts that he had waiting for him back home, because while they had worked as motivation to get home to the human world again, they also had reminded him too painfully of everything he couldn't have. Imagining a slice of pizza hadn't been healthy when he was starving, imagining a bed hadn't been healthy when he was tired, and imagining Lady hadn't been healthy when he was lonely and even a little scared. On top of that, the more he had used his devil trigger, the easier it had been to repress the urge to remember those warm and familiar things. His devil form didn't like pizza, and instead could scarf down filthy scraps that would usually make him cringe; he didn't need to sleep much in his devil form either, so he could easily ignore his human mind's urges for a soft bed; and as for human women... His devil form was more interested in devil women, so Lady, no matter how attractive she was, didn't come to mind. Either way, he hadn't given much thought to women when he was in Hell, more concerned about finding a way back to the human world, so sexual frustration had been the last thing on his mind.

Now that he was back, though, all he could do was think about Lady. He couldn't even remember how much her presence floated in his mind before he entered Hell, but now he suddenly wanted to go through and remember each of her frowns and smiles and laughs and tears—no, better yet: he wanted to see all of it again as if they had just met, the good and the bad alike.

But maybe not just yet; he didn't want to get ahead of himself. Right now, he just wanted to comfort her, and maybe see that rare smile again.

"This _isn't_ how it's supposed to go," Lady continued. "I'm either supposed to run into your arms or slap you, and I can't seem to do either. I just want to stand here and not have to make any decisions." She laughed nervously, hand tentatively reaching out to rest against his chest. Her touch was hesitant, which was a nice change from Trish's earlier rough shoves. "Right now would actually be a good time for one of your suavely corny pickup lines."

Dante laughed: what, he was suavely corny? He thought he was just regular-suave, if not _exceptionally_ suave in his seduction. At least she wanted to hear one, which was a good sign in his book. "I actually don't have one right now," he answered apologetically. "Two years fighting your way through Hell, and picking up chicks isn't exactly the first thing that's on your mind." Then he smiled, inspiration striking at the most opportune moment. Oh, he _still_ had it. "But you know," he added, his smile widening to a grin, "why would I want to pick up anyone else when I had _you_ waiting back here for me?"

That made her smile; more than that, Lady actually full out laughed, just like the way in which she used to laugh at his stupid joke. In fact, the reason why he knew that time had passed and that everything in Hell had been a dream was the fact that the lines in her face were more a little more prominent now than they had been then, although not unpleasantly so.

His response had been clever, and maybe a little bit cheesy, and while he had thought that she would appreciate it, he definitely hadn't expected her to like it to the point of laughter. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears just beginning to gather and sparkle in her lashes, and the hand that had once simply been resting against his chest was now balled into a fist, clutching the fabric of his shirt.

"You liked that, huh?" Dante asked, smiling a little himself at Lady's display.

The laughter slowed, a couple more chuckles escaping as she calmed herself down. Lady looked up at him, still smiling widely, eyes glistening with tears. Despite the smile, he suddenly wasn't sure if she had been laughing or crying, or both. "I _needed_ that. _Thank_ you," she admitted, the hand that was gripping his shirt loosening a bit to simply rest there once more. Her free hand reached around and settled against his back, pulling herself a little bit closer to him.

"Don't mention it," Dante quietly answered, his own free hand slipping into her hair to cradle her head slightly. His fingers massaged her scalp, and he felt a small shiver run through her body. "Just let me know if you want to hear any more pickup lines, and I'll dig up a few more."

She chuckled again, leaning into him with the side of her face pressed against his chest, facing the hand that was now absently running up and down the seam of his coat. "This is perfect," she said. "I'm happy to just do this right now. Just … standing here."

"Then we can do this," he agreed. He moved his arms to wrap around her, pulling her as close as possible to him. "Which is probably better anyway, because I think I'm a bit too tired for sex right now."

Lady laughed briefly, her nose pressing into his chest and breath ghosting across the fabric of his shirt. The hand that was navigating the seam of his coat wrapped around to join the other, clasping together as if to make it harder to move her away. Dante smiled at the tight grip she had around him, one hand once again sliding up her back to tangle into the hair at the nape of her neck.

The room fell into a comfortable silence that reminded him of their one night together. He had woken up a few times that morning, forcing himself back to sleep each time so as not to make the evening end. He suspected, from the times that he had felt her stir and settle back down, that she had done the same.

As happy as he was to be standing there with her, there was something about the silence that he had wanted to fill with conversation. They had lost two years together, time that they would never recover because of that stupid job he had taken. He just wanted to talk to her—she could tell him about the time she spent dealing with the last of her father's belongings, as well as tidbits of her life that she had never felt the need to share. He could tell her, from his point of view instead of Lucia's, everything that had happened on his most recent mission, including everything that had happened in the demon world. Maybe it was grim, but it was something that he would need to talk about eventually, and he wanted _Lady_ to be the one listening.

But that was later. Right now, there was something that he needed to tell her. "Lady," he started, voice low as her hands massaged the area around his shoulder blades. "I l—"

Lady quickly leaned up and captured his lower lip between her own, causing him to stop short, his eyes shutting at the sensation. "Not now," she said as she pulled away slightly, breathing the words against him. "We'll talk later."

"Okay," Dante agreed, allowing himself to be distracted despite the overwhelming desire to talk. It could wait.

Besides, there were plenty of _other_ things that they could catch up on after two years of being apart that involved their mouths; their lips met again, this time a lot more intensely. Dante, now feeling the strain of standing too long and worrying about his legs buckling underneath him, led the two of them to the brown sofa that had long since been calling out to him. As he sat, Lady settled on top of him, hands caressing his shoulders and neck as his hands skimmed her back and sides.

There was no more need for words.

A long time ago, when he had been thinking about Lady as a name and not just as a person, he had told himself that he was her knight, carrying her missile launcher like a favor that she had given him right before he galloped out of the castle. He wasn't sure why he had just remembered that, but realized that the metaphor had changed: the lady of the court had long since proven that she was just as capable of slaying the dragon as any knight, and yet he had continued trying to rescue her even though it was something that she didn't always need.

Still, one element of the metaphor remained. She had, in his mind, been locked up in the tallest tower of this greatly fortified castle, and the villain responsible had long since died without providing instruction on how to free her. He had spent the last twenty-six—twenty-_eight_, now, he needed to remind himself—years trying with all of his might to hack down the walls that kept her from the outside, only to find that she would sometimes rebuild them, afraid of being released and revealed. Now, all these years later, it seemed as though he had finally broken down the walls and metaphorically rescued her, or at least had come rather close.

Did she still have any walls up, keeping her trapped inside? It didn't matter: it was selfish to ask her to open herself up completely. Let her keep a few walls, if it meant that she felt safe.

Lady suddenly broke off their kiss, resting her chin against his forehead as she retrieved her breath and laughed all at once. Dante wasn't sure what she was laughing at exactly, but decided not to ask—he realized that he kind of liked it when she kept things from him. Instead he traced her collarbone with kisses before pausing in the little space between both bones, his own smile a somewhat of a mystery to him but that he guessed was just due to general contentment.

"God," Lady breathed, still laughing all the while. "I _love_ you."

_...now_ there was no more need for words.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
